100 Themes Challenge
by Bone Dry
Summary: My response to the challenge on the Yard. This is a hodge podge of all sorts of prose from pre s1 to s3. Rated T for some language/situational things. Read the preface for more detailed information on contents.
1. Preface

100 Themes Challenge

Bone_Dry's attempt...

--

So, a little bit of my own author's ramble thing which I do at the beginning of all my stories, though this is much more relevant as it this is a total of _one hundred_ pieces—which will all lay most of my personal preference as far as style goes bare, not to mention my "original" ideas.

I switch tenses and writing style fairly often, sometimes even mid-piece for the latter. This collection contains my first attempt at writing present tense, and my tackling of the vignette form. I did a lot of experimentation, sometimes as dry runs, sometimes just to stretch my own process and comfort zone. And sometimes, of course, they are squarely within my comfort zone—which is why Brennan tends to be my narrator for the _majority_ (though not all) of the Themes.

In essence, this is a hodge podge, and contains some of my best and some of my weakest writing moments. A lot of these were written to see a specific character in a new light, or an old light that's been tweaked a little. I explore the past histories of a few characters (mainly Cam and Brennan), I add on to scenes in older episodes, I do missing scenes, I make up scenes that have no ties whatsoever to any episodes. My time zone is before "Pain in the Heart" for almost all of them (_only_ breaking for the sake of Angela and Hodgins' relationship), and, for the most part, I stick within the boundaries of the first two seasons or at a time before the story even began.

At any rate, my plan is to post one Theme per day for one hundred days, so updates will be stiffly regular and continuous for, jeez, a great deal over two months. I hope you all will take the time to read, to stand my style, and to leave me a review on your way out.

Remember, reviewing is the most important part of this process, as reader feed-back can help me shape my edits and my writing in later fics, so, even if you may not have something to highlight or anything to say, please take a few seconds to tell me you're reading, so that I know it's worth my effort and fanfic's space to be posting continuously for this long.

And now that I'm done talking, here's the list for all 100 Themes. The first post will be right after this one. I will _not_ go in order, and sometimes I will string a few of the Themes together to form a coherent story, whether it be two Themes together, or five, or just a simple one-shot.

:)

100 Themes:

1. Introduction 2. Love 3. Light 4. Dark

5. Seeking Solace 6. Break Away 7. Heaven 8. Innocence

9. Drive 10. Breathe Again 11. Memory 12. Insanity

13. Misfortune 14. Smile 15. Silence 16. Questioning

17. Blood 18. Rainbow 19. Gray 20. Fortitude

21. Vacation 22. Mother Nature 23. Cat 24. No Time

25. Trouble Lurking 26. Tears 27. Foreign 28. Sorrow

29. Happiness 30. Under the Rain 31. Flowers 32. Night

33. Expectations 34. Stars 35. Hold My Hand 36. Precious Treasure

37. Eyes 38. Abandoned 39. Dreams 40. Rated

41. Teamwork 42. Standing Still 43. Dying 44. Two Roads

45. Illusion 46. Family 47. Creation 48. Childhood

49. Stripes 50. Breaking the Rules 51. Sport 52. Deep in Thought

53. Keeping a Secret 54. Tower 55. Waiting 56. Danger Ahead

57. Sacrifice 58. Kick in the Head 59. No Way Out 60. Rejection

61. Fairy Tale 62. Magic 63. Do Not Disturb 64. Multitasking

65. Horror 66. Traps 67. Playing the Melody 68. Hero

69. Annoyance 70. 67% 71. Obsession 72. Mischief Managed

73. I Can't 74. Are You Challenging Me? 75. Mirror

76. Broken Pieces 77. Test 78. Drink 79. Starvation

80. Words 81. Pen and Paper 82. Can You Hear Me? 83. Heal

84. Out Cold 85. Spiral 86. Seeing Red 87. Food

88. Pain 89. Through the Fire 90. Triangle 91. Drowning

92. All That I Have 93. Give Up 94. Last Hope 95. Advertisement

96. In the Storm 97. Safety First 98. Puzzle 99. Solitude

100. Relaxation

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	2. Introduction

--

Introduction

--

Only one of the double doors slides open. The other one just sort of sits there. There's a note on the unmoving door that indicates to all of the scientists that it is out of order. Beside the note is the yellow, red, and blue logo with the man on it, only it's not transparent like one would expect. It proclaims "Jeffersonian Anthropology Unit Medico Legal." Beyond it are many people in blue lab coats, and from far away it almost seems as if they're drifting along, only people don't float, they walk.

He steps forward and glances around, eyes wide, face surely expressing how lost he is. Part of him hopes that no will notice him, but the other part of him knows that that sort of non-assertive behavior will only serve to get him into trouble later. His only problem is that he isn't sure where to go, was never sure to begin with. He just knows he has an appointment somewhere in the building, that somewhere Dr. Temperance Brennan, discoverer of many ground-breaking techniques in his field, is waiting.

"Excuse me," a voice says from his right. He turns to regard a tall woman in the usual blue lab coat, though it is trimmed in decorative beads. Her hair is not overly long, but not very short either, and her eyes are clear, and yet softly, brown. "Are you okay? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

He opens his mouth and manages to croak, "I apologize."

"For what?" she looks at him curiously.

"For bothering you."

"Hey, I'm the one who asked," she says. "What's your name?"

"Zack Addy," he replies.

"Oh, so you're Brennan's grad student. I thought I hadn't seen you before." She smiles and sticks out a hand with several rings and a jingling bracelet. "Angela Montenegro."

Her shake is firm but not rough. "I know in this sort of gesture, one usually introduces himself, but since you already know my name, I am going to say 'pleased to meet you.' "

She laughs, "No need to get so formal. Come on," she gently taps his shoulder. "I'll show you to Brennan's office."

They walk forward, but favor the left side until they reach a row of small cubicles. No one looks up as they pass, and people shift aside to allow them to slip by if need be. Angela's steps are calm and unhurried, suggesting that she's walked this path many times. Zack's are nervous and clumsy. He's never been in a laboratory of this size.

Soon enough a corner office comes into view. Inside, the floor is wood, and the tables are wood, though some are also metal and glass. There's a couch, as well as a bunch of chairs. Various art pieces of various ethnic origins are spread around, and on the far left, behind a glass desk and its occupant, is a row of lit shelving filled with pottery. As he gets closer he notices a few small skeletons tucked inside as well.

He hears her voice, calm and clear, "Have you got time of death for the Huntings case yet, Hodgins?" she asks, though she appears to be reading a file.

The man across from her, apparently Hodgins, nods, "Yeah. Flies and soil samples suggest six to eight months ago."

"Do you have anything to perhaps narrow it down?"

"I'm hatching a few pupa. If they're a different species that may help."

She nods, "You'll get back to me?"

"Of course," he says and looks as if he is about to get up. He stops as he meets Zack's eyes, "You've got a visitor, Dr. Brennan."

She looks up from her file, her grey eyes sweeping around until they find his own. "Zack Addy?" she asks, rising.

"Yes," he nods.

Angela pats his shoulder. "It's okay. She won't bite."

Brennan exhales, the slightest suggestion of a grin pulling at her lips. "Temperance Brennan," she says, holding out a hand. He shakes it, finding her grip to be only just short of crushing. Their eyes are almost level. She's taller than Angela.

"I have your lab coat here," she says, reaching onto a coat-rack, where two blue coats are hanging. She removes one and hands it to him. "I assume you've got your ID badge and the paperwork is all filled out?"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," he takes the ID card from his pocket and shows it to her.

"You should clip it onto your lab coat so that security recognizes you." She hands him the coat and he slowly slips it on. "I could show you around the lab."

"I can," the man called Hodgins volunteers with a grin. He has fairly long curly hair and a beard, his eyes gas-burner blue. He hops up and holds out a hand of his own. "Jack Hodgins, pleased to meet you."

"As you probably heard, I'm Zack Addy," he holds out a hand still recovering from Brennan's grip. Hodgins clasps it and shakes it in a friendly fashion.

Brennan watches the two of them with a slightly amused look. "Okay, Dr. Hodgins. Show him around and bring him back when he's ready." She gives him an encouraging look as she settles back behind her desk.

Hodgins and Angela begin to walk in the opposite direction of the anthropologist's office, their new charge between them.

"Brennan's been pretty excited about you," Angela says. "She says your accomplishments are impressive for your age."

"Really?" Zack asks, his fear ebbing away.

"Oh yeah," Hodgins says. "So now you're one of us."

"Welcome to the Jeffersonian, Mr. Addy," Angela says.

A smile crosses the young grad student's face, "Please call me Zack."

"Whatever you want, Z-man." She smiles, "Whatever you want."

--


	3. Insanity

Don't remember quite what inspired it, as this was six months ago, but I know this was how I felt when I wrote this piece.

--

Insanity

--

Three books on the left, two on the right.

Center-most is the current file. Don't move it or it will disappear.

There are five stacks of six files stacked exactly three inches apart on the table four feet from the chair.

Four pads of sticky notes, two opened, two still wrapped in plastic. The label on one has been mostly picked off.

The jar of rubber bands is within arm's reach, but just barely.

The other jar filled with paperclips is on Zack's desk because he has taken them.

Two computers and one is on screensavor, the other sleeping. It has been carefully explained that a laptop and computer are different, but he is not so sure about that.

On the wall, measured by hand, are six perfectly straight pictures, which has also been straightened with a laser just to be sure.

The dinosaurs are lined up neatly on the desk, and only three are making eye-contact. The other two are looking at Zack.

A fish tank bubbles nearby and he listens and counts them. _Glop. _One. _Glop. _Two. _Glop. _Three.

The inbox is full and overflowing. A few papers are on the ground, but he has left them because he doesn't want to pick them up.

Memos have been received but he does not read them.

The stapler has exactly four staples left in it, assuming it does manage to staple on the first try. Sometimes it takes three or four tries to get it right. Then there is only one staple, really.

There's a sound. A clip-clop from far away. It comes closer but then drifts away. He wonders if it's really there.

The boiler is buzzing and Zack is reading a comic book, legs propped onto a table. He reads the comic from far away and notes that Coyote has blown up again. The next few pages feature the canine's miraculous recoveries and subsequent deaths.

An intern walks in silently, her hands wrapped around something rectangular. She hands it to him and walks away.

He stares. More paperwork.

He lays it on top of the stack, but then they become uneven and it bothers him. He puts it on the table alone, but that looks worse. He rearranges the file and sticks it between, putting the two unopened sticky notes on top of the shorter files, on either side of the taller stack.

He can pretend it was meant to be that way all along.

His hand hurts, and he notes the black pen marks on his arm. He grabs the pen and begins connecting the dots, creating some sort of design that looked vaguely like an atom.

Nearby is a massive stack of papers that have been inked already. He wants to shred them, but knows that would be bad form.

The fax machine suddenly whirs to life, and he watches as papers begin shooting out, falling to the ground after a while. It beeps and he looks at it. It says it is out of ink. He grins maniacally, glad that the papers will stop flowing but then Zack gets up, reads what the problem is, and replaces the cartridge.

More papers come out.

He watches with glazing eyes.

More and more come. He does not know how there can possibly be so many.

His phone rings and he turns abruptly, his arm smacking the neatly stacked files to the floor. The sticky notes fall among them to be lost.

The printer continues to print.

The stack of already completed paperwork wobbles off balance before toppling to the floor.

Jack Hodgins stares at the sea of white before beginning to laugh uncontrollably, then hysterically, until almost the entire lab can hear him.

--


	4. Annoyance

--

Annoyance

--

A single light was on at the end of the rows of cubicles, beside the wooden staircase that led up to the lounge. Every other visible office light was off, and only a few of the main lab lights were on, though they had been dulled to half their normal glow. This was not much of a surprise. He'd seen this before after all.

With quiet, careful steps, he walked toward the light, the office, and ultimately its occupant, who did not notice his appearance. Her hair had fallen loose from her ears long ago, the bangs hiding most of her face. Her fingers were moving slowly, albeit deftly, down a sheet of paper with a number of lines on it. They looked like the same sort of things he'd been dealing with, only, quite possibly, they were even more dull.

He watched her for a while, but she never noticed him, just continued to work. He stepped closer. She didn't glance away. Eventually, he ended up almost behind her, able to see clearly that she was filling out paperwork from their last case. He saw his name filled in in a few places, her name in others, the squints' names in yet others. He saw the victim's name. He saw notes and photocopies.

One light on in the whole lab and it was aiding a workaholic to continue past midnight.

"Bones?"

She jumped and her hand jerked, causing a few neatly stacked files on her right to spill to the ground. "Booth," she breathed, already bending down to pick up the papers. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here? I thought we agreed to get this stuff done tomorrow," he gestured at the mess on her desk.

"I know, but I started earlier and simply decided to work my way through it."

"When was this?"

She shifted aside her sleeve and looked at her watch, still bent over, "A while ago."

"That's real specific there, Bones."

She tucked her bangs behind her ears with one hand as she rose, the files held to her chest. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me," he grinned at her.

She scowled, "Why? What's with the sudden interest in my personal life, Booth?"

"Because we're partners, and partners care about things like that."

"Things like what, exactly?" she was listening with half an ear, her pen already scribbling more words into forms.

"Like sleep and eating. You have eaten today, haven't you, Bones?"

"Yes."

"Getting enough sleep?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I'm glad to hear that you're glad to hear it."

He could tell that she wanted him to leave her be, but he knew that would be the wrong decision for both of them. "Come on, Bones," he prodded her shoulder. "Let me drive you home."

"I am perfectly capable of driving myself home."

"But then who would keep you company?"

"Who says I need company?" he was amazed she was able to concentrate enough to continue writing.

"I do."

"How do I know that you're not the one who wants company and aren't just projecting that onto me?"

"I thought you hated psychology."

She ignored that.

"Come on, you know you want me to drive you home."

"I do, do I?"

"Yeah, you do. Come on."

She said nothing.

"I won't leave until you agree."

"And what if I decide to stay here all night?"

"Then I'll stay here all night."

She let out an irritated breath.

"There's no getting out of it, Bones. I'll take you home, or, if you want, we can go to the Diner and get a slice of pie."

"I don't like pie, Booth," she sounded exceptionally annoyed.

"You'll change your mind."

"I doubt it."

"Just give it a chance."

"I did. I didn't like it. I don't like my fruit baked."

"Then I'll get you a milkshake."

"This late at night?"

"We can do whatever you want."

"What I want is to work."

"Except that."

She scowled.

"Come on," he reached behind him and reached for her coat, tugged it off, and held it out to her.

She continued writing.

"I'll never go away, Bones. I'll just keep talking until you agree."

The pen scritched into the paper.

"Boooonnnnneeeeeesssss."

"Fine," she snapped, rising from her chair with enough force to send it temporarily off the ground. "I've stopped. You happy?"

"Not yet, Bones. You haven't agreed to get some pie."

"I don't _want_ pie."

"See, that's what they all say."

Her brows knitted together, "Who's 'they' ?"

"They...you know? Those people that everyone knows about until asked to say who they are. You know? They?"

"No. I don't know."

"Nevermind."

"You're the one that brought it up," she finally took her coat and slipped it on.

"Yes, I did."

"I suppose there's no way I can drive myself home tonight?"

"Nope."

She pierced him with the glare. Not just the normal glare, but the glare that read: not-another-word-unless-you-want-your-face-eaten-off-by-a-jar-of-flesh-eating-beetles-and-possibly-a-few-piranhas.

He ignored it, "So hop to it, Bones."

After another scathing look, she reached under the sole glowing light in the Jeffersonian and flicked it off.

"That's more like it," he said.

Silently, she clicked past him and he, following, whistled in her wake.

--

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	5. Waiting

This is the point where I begin using vignette form, the style inspired specifically by _House on Mango Street_. A few have more of this style than others, but this is the first time I begin consciously using it.

The three that follow deal with the women of the lab's love lives; this is my first and favorite.

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Waiting

--

There are almost six hundred thousand people in the District of Columbia. New York has nineteen million, the Bronx taking in almost half a mil*. Cutting figures with the assumption that the population is roughly divided fifty-fifty between males and females, the number drops to about three hundred thou, eight mil, and two hundred-fifty thou, respectively, giving an approximate pool of about eight and three-quarters of a mil. With the additional assumption that half are either still wearing diapers or have recently been put back into them, the number cuts to around four and a quarter mil. If other factors were included, the number would likely more than halve again.

And then there is the work. Most men don't like to hear about rotting corpses, snotty scientists, truckloads of paperwork, and a paycheck that can allow for a decent living. They don't like the word "doctor." They don't appreciate the calls at three a.m. because a body has been found sticking half out of a gutter and a pathologist is needed to determine what, why, when, where, and how. Long nights and early mornings. The vast majority of food coming via a waiter in a fast food joint. She survived but the men were like revolving doors.

Some women in her business skimmed through those available at work, the ones that one doesn't have to work with every single day in case something goes south. Some were charming, most were cynical, and all had some basic concept of her work-life and what it invariably involved. There was dysfunction, there was irritability, and there were floods of testosterone. Workaholics thrived, and those that didn't want to be there either stuck it out or ran away. After some prompting, a few old movies, and one very uncomfortable call from her father, Cam had decided to skim through those available at the workplace. The person she found was Seeley Booth.

Before his current post as DC's personal FBI beefcake, he was a copper in New York, around the Bronx. He was always FBI, and despite the lines between federal and local, he enjoyed walking into the labs to annoy the scientists, ignore the bodies, and make sure reports hit his hands before the ink on the page was even finished drying. He was charming, attractive, and, most importantly, available. It was a fluke of nature, and some of the women at the lab made passes. He ignored them with his grins and cute words. Some said he was a tease, others claimed his bedpost was whittled down to a toothpick. Cam ignored both them and him.

But one day he was there, and she was the one being hounded for a report. He made cheeky comments, and she smiled but ignored him. His questions turned to her personal life and she responded while writing up lab reports and calling those who needed calling. It became their thing, rapport developed, injokes were created, and eventually professional boundaries were broken. There were days of young romance, movies, dinners, candles, motel rooms. Then there was her bed, and his bed, and if they had smoked then it would be like those scenes in old movies where she was wrapped in a blanket, and he was shirtless, and they were sharing a cigarette, only they didn't smoke anymore so that never happened. It lasted for years, and eventually the romance, movies, dinners, and candles drifted away, and then there was just cynicism and late nights, and her bed and his bed. She got her doctorate, began moving up the ladder at the Coroner's office, and he was promoted and offered a transfer to the Capitol. He took it, they parted, and suddenly her nights were spent alone again with fast food and old movies, and the men once again had no ideas about her work and her personal life, and so the revolving door was back in motion.

Now she is back in DC, and Booth is there, and their relationship was briefly rekindled, only the flame died much faster this time around, and now she is back in front of that mirror, checking the condition of her lipstick, and hanging around bars breathing smoke and drinking shots. The men come and they go, and then there are times when there are no men, just drinks and bad air. And she sits there waiting. Waiting for a door to open, a star to fall, and a lover to pass the time.

--

*If anyone is curious, I did take those stats on population from a USA census report, though those were estimates for 2008. I did a _lot_ of rounding, both up and down. Figured I should say I didn't just randomly make that up. However, as far as the rest goes, I _did_ just sort of go from those assumptions with the division.

--

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	6. Starvation

--

Starvation

--

Sixteen men in one month. Their lips had met, tongues had rolled and danced, and clothing had been discarded sixteen times for sixteen men. Now the bed is empty, and her clothing is stacked neatly on a chair, and her hair is still mostly put together from work. She had almost gone out but had decided against it as her hand was on the knob.

The soft tan chair she had purchased three apartments ago is rocking slowly, and she absently puts down a foot to stop the movement before changing her mind and kicking off once more. Outside the city is brightly lit, like thousands of stars, and in between move small insects to whatever destination they are destined to reach. She watches, and considers grabbing a sketchpad, but doesn't, and her mind paints pictures over the night sky.

Her tongue hungers, and her jaw clicks back and forth. She watches the paintings in her mind, and her hunger increases, and her foot stops the rocking of the chair as her body shudders in faux pleasure. But then the illusion passes, and she is once again alone in her apartment, and the men have come before going again, and the one man whom she thought would stay forever was still gone, and his absence leaves an emptiness that remains unfilled.

Slowly, she grabs her stacked clothes and slips into them. She glances at herself in the mirror and runs a hand through her neat hair and then turns, opens her door, and walks out.

Seventeen men in one month and still she remains hungry, starving.

--

That was Angela, in case it wasn't perfectly clear.

--

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	7. Love

--

Love

--

She was always practical. That's what could be said. Others say that it's unnatural, it's not right, it makes no sense, but to her it doesn't really matter. They always seem to leave one way or another, for whatever reason, and people say that that is cynical, pessimistic, and she should look on the bright side, or the other side of the fence, or whatever it is that people say. But she doesn't care about the things that a lot of women supposedly care about. She doesn't want children, or a husband, or to stop working. She doesn't even expect to find a husband. She justs wants her release so she can get back to living. There is no love, she's decided, only chemicals.

But there is a sort of emptiness, because she doesn't come home to find a man there, and there isn't really anyone that calls and asks for health updates, and if they would possibly like to get together for dinner, and then go back to either's apartments to have sex and then, in the mornings, some sort of pancake. And when there isn't a man, there's no family to call and complain to, and she probably wouldn't complain even if she did because she doesn't like to talk about herself. There's Angela, and Booth, but she has no real desire to talk to them either.

Though the men themselves are around. She can find them. Sometimes she wears the moderately conservative shirt with the tank top underneath and no bra, and her mascara is on, but only just so, making her eyes glitter in soft lighting, and she will drive to busy bars and simply sit there until someone shows up, staring at her chest, and if he causes some sort of reaction they may go home and have sex and she'll know neither his name nor where he came from in the morning. She won't be happy, but she'll be sated, and Angela will not have to make comments about sexual electricity and pent up desires.

And there were a few men that had made her happy. She had thought she had loved Michael, and a few others from when she was younger. But in the end they all left, only in Michael's case he came back with the intent of sabotaging her career. When he had left for the second time, she had almost felt like crying but never did because she was used to it.

And now she lays with her feet propped over her couch in her empty apartment, with the smell of her steamed vegetables still in the air, and she wishes vaguely that a man was there to rub her sore shoulders and feet, and then imagines pressing her lips to his, and shedding clothing like a snake sloughs his skin, and leaving a trail of their things until they reach the bedroom, where she falls and he falls, and their bodies entwine like two heated pieces of glass. But then she blinks and silently scolds herself, getting up and tossing her jacket and purse to head to the bedroom, where she changes quickly and falls into bed for sleep.

Yes, there is no love, she decides as she closes her eyes, only chemicals.

--

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	8. Trouble Lurking

--

Trouble Lurking

--

He steals slowly along the half-empty corridor of the lab, his soft-soled loafers making hardly a sound as he goes. He notes a finger and then a hand poke from the frame of a door a few feet away, and he quickly moves to it, his eyes directed in another, less incriminating, direction.

"Did you get them?" a voice asks quietly, conspiratorially, and he nods. "Good. Where's the Dragon?"

"Who's the Dragon again?"

The voice's carefully constructed calm shatters, "The Dragon, Zack! The Dragon!"

He thinks for a moment. "Oh," he says as realization hits. "The Dragon."

"Right," it now sounds impatient. "Where is she?"

"Out at a business meeting. You know that."

"Plans change. We've got to be sure."

"Oh."

"Where's Picasso?"

"I thought she wanted to be O'Keefe."

"Does it matter?"

"Ang—"

"O'Keefe!"

"...would think so."

He sighs, "Fine. O'Keefe. It doesn't matter. Where is she?"

"She is out with the Ring-Leader."

"Where?"

"A shop downtown."

"Hm," the voice stops for a moment. "Br—Ring-Leader won't last long there. We have to hurry."

"Won't Ring-Leader want to know about this?"

"Naw, Mother Hen can't know yet."

His brows knits, "I thought we were calling her Ring-Leader."

There was a brief pause and an exhalation, "Where's the Stooge?"

"Out getting supplies. I thought we agreed not to call him that."

"Why would we?"

"On the off-chance that I would hear you," another, deeper, voice says, and Zack turns, his face going white.

"Agent Booth," he stutters as Hodgins steps out from behind his hiding place. "I didn't know you were there."

"I figured that."

"Well, it's only fair I get to choose the code-names," Hodgins says. "I mean, I'm the one who started this whole thing to begin with."

"And _I_ am the one who agreed," Booth says. "Though God knows why I would team up with Dumb and Dumber." He pauses, "Again."

"I thought we agreed that we were Pinky and the Brain," Zack says. "Though I'm still not sure what that means."

The two look at him.

"Didn't we?"

Both of them ignore him.

"So how long do you think Brennan will last out in the shops?"

Booth looks at his watch, "Eh, she's probably still pointing out inaccuracies in all the tribal stuff, and I bet Angela will drag her to lunch too."

"So...Thirty minutes?"

"Maybe forty."

Nods are exchanged and the three troop over to Brennan's unoccupied office.

"Oh God," Booth says, raising his eyebrows at the sight before him. "Where did all these come from?"

"Storage," Hodgins says simply and begins wheeling the things around. "You wouldn't believe how many of these are just lying around."

"I would, actually."

"Obviously," Zack says, "They're right here."

Both ignore him again.

"So, wanna help, Booth?" Hodgins asks. "It's always fun."

The agent's brows raise, "I don't think so." He shakes his head.

"Oh come on. It's for Brennan."

"Exactly."

"Naw, we'll take all the blame. You can just say you walked in on it."

"She won't buy that."

"Eh, probably not."

Booth begins to walk away.

"Hey," the entomologist interrupts, "You helped get supplies. You obviously want to help."

"I do?"

"Yes," he hands him a stack of blue lab coats. "Join in the fun."

Warily, Booth takes them and, with a glance around himself, reenters his partner's office. "I'm blaming it all on you," he says.

Hodgins and Zack share a conspiratorial grin before they get to work.

--

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	9. Happiness

--

Happiness

--

Brennan walks back into the Jeffersonian's Medico Legal Lab, one arm ladened with a fabric bag because she doesn't like to use plastic and the other wrapped around her purse. Beside her, Angela struggles with three bags on each arm.

"I told you that buying all of that stuff when you weren't going home afterward was a bad idea," the anthropologist says. "And besides, I'm not sure you even needed all that."

"Sweetie," Angela says, "There is no such thing as too many clothes. Remember that."

She looks at her skeptically, "I'll try."

"Good," she walks into her office and unceremoniously dumps her bags onto a couch, then walks over to her desk. "Damn. I think I left my keys in your office."

Brennan nods, "Then let's go back and get them."

"Sounds like an adventure."

"Of only the most insipid kind."

She shrugs and they begin walking.

Brennan is halfway to her office when she notices something amiss, "Oh God." Her pace quickens and when she reaches the glass doors to her haven, she stares in disbelief. "Oh, I am going to kill Booth," she mutters.

From behind her, Angela starts giggling.

Six display skeletons are engaged in various activities throughout her office, one at her desk, bony hands poised over her keyboard, one on her couch with a file clutched in its hand, a third leaning over its right scapula, and another reaching into her bookshelf, its metacarpals and phalanges wrapped around one of her texts. The other two are standing near her coffee desk, both on either side of a large banner, which they are apparently supporting with the wire between their wrists.

"Happy Birthday, Bones," she hears a voice to her right and she turns to see Booth with an easy smile on his face, one hand holding a small bucket of drinks in ice. "And I just walked in on this; had nothing to do with it."

She is about to respond but is interrupted by the sound of singing from behind. Turning, her eyes widen as she sees Angela, Zack, and Hodgins trooping toward her, a large cake gripped between the three of them. Her cheeks begin to burn, and she feels very glad, for once, that it is the weekend and no one else is here. But despite her embarrassment, a smile creeps up her lips.

Still singing, the three scientists walk into her office and set the cake on her desk.

"So," Hodgins says, turning, "How does it feel to be thirty-two?"

"Like it did to be thirty-one, only last year there were less skeletons."

"It's tradition, Bren," Angela says. "And you're the bone lady."

"So I've been told."

Booth, grinning, gently steers her into her office and sits her beside the two skeletons on her couch, setting down his burden and pouring the contents into small glasses which he spaces around the table. He then settles beside her, on the arm of the couch.

The scientists begin singing again and this time her partner joins them as Angela lights the candles and grins at her. Brennan, after a cheeky smile, puffs out a breath to blow out all of the candles at once.

"Wow. Impressive, Bones."

She directs her smile to him.

Zack says, "We couldn't fit thirty-two candles on the cake, even though I understand it's traditional to have the candles match the age, so Hodgins and I decided to do something aesthetically pleasing instead."

"With a little help from me," Angela says, plopping down into a chair she has dragged over.

Hodgins smiles and stands behind her, hands rubbing her shoulders. Zack settles across from Brennan and asks who has the knife. A voice from the doorway answers, "I do."

They turn.

Cam is standing there, a bemused grin on her face as she surveys the skeletons spaced around the room. "So this is what you three were trying to hide from me."

Brennan grimaces, "Last year it was my apartment, so I guess they had to distract you...and me, for that matter."

"Yes," the pathologist looks up at Zack and Hodgins, "I was only informed of that little endeavor just before you were supposed to show up."

"So that's why you looked so confused?"

"You got it," she says and walks in. When she spots a chair she plops into it. "That's why I got out early and brought the cake-cutter."

"We were going to wait for you, Camille," Booth says.

"Sure you were, Seeley. After all the frosting was gone, no doubt."

"Naw, I would've saved you a piece."

She raises a brow.

"Half a piece."

She nods in Brennan's direction, "He was always like that."

Brennan nods and the look of discomfort on Booth's face makes her grin.

Cam laughs and hands the large, broad knife to Zack, who carefully cuts a slice and holds it out to Brennan.

"Thanks, Zack," she says.

"You're welcome, Dr. Brennan," he glows and cuts the next slice. "Who wants this?"

"Ladies first," Angela says. "Cam, then me."

"What about us?" Booth.

"Oh, we'll eat all of yours, Booth," Cam.

He makes a face.

"Aw, but what about your Hodgie?" Hodgins asks Angela, looking down.

"Hm," she says, taking her own slice from Zack. "You did rub my shoulders." She thinks about it as Zack watches her carefully for her reaction. "Eh, give the man some cake."

Hodgins grins and takes the proffered slice.

"One for you, Agent Booth," Zack says and hands him a piece before taking one for himself.

"To Brennan," Angela begins, raising her glass.

"The center," Booth.

"Our leader," Hodgins.

"Co-worker," Cam.

"Teacher," Zack.

"And friend," Angela resumes, "And to many more years to come."

Glasses click, sips are taken, and conversation begins again over cake and good friends.

--

Review!

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	10. Horror

--

Horror

--

Their mouths are wide in a silent protestation, orbits turned to a sky they haven't been able to see for over a decade. Some of the skulls lie far from any remnants of a body, a few still containing an old ax, a machete, a bullet. His fingers slowly brush away the damp soil, revealing a small skeleton with a radial fracture on the sternum. Gingerly, he presses down on the empty sockets of a dull-brown mandible, staring at the slots where teeth had once been and, in some cases, still remain. He rocks back on the balls of his feet, his fingers sliding from the jaw in a slow, uncontrolled action.

Ten years-old.

Jesus.

Rising, he looks around. A few other anthropologists are above, one eating a sandwich, his eyes focused on nothing. Behind him is a crowd of silent spectators, all waiting to know if a relative is one of the Disappeared in the pit. There are two scientists talking to six people, their clothes spotted and dirty, their hair ragged and dusted brown. In their hands are clipboards, and they occasionally write something down.

His eyes lower, and he sits back on his haunches again, focusing on the skeleton sticking half out of the muddy earth.

Ten years-old.

His eyes close.

The only sounds around him are the slow scrapes of trowels, and the brushing of hands against dirt. There is no talking, the only communication slight hand gestures in this mournful place.

The air smells of death, but it is more mellow than the kind found with bodies seething with maggots. It's sour, old and bitter. It sticks to the roof of his mouth and the inside of his nostrils. But after one has worked in it for long hours, the smell itself is no longer recognizable from the surrounding air. It simply becomes a reality.

He inhales.

He's a victim of his own rationality, he knows. He's always been the freak, the cold-hearted judge. He has rarely missed a question, has been hated for his young age and intelligence. Always the odd-one out. He has found his haven and skill in anthropology and has found a place where he's accepted for both who he is and the work he does.

But despite what the common opinion of him is, he feels things. Like his mentor, he sees faces with skulls, injuries with cracked bones, pain with twisted ligaments. He sees fractures in a small skeleton's sternum and knows what it means. But unlike her, he has not adapted to the horrors of his work, and he is unable to confide in anyone but himself.

He exhales, and rises once more.

Ten years-old with a bullet through the heart and he can do nothing but tell what happened.

Sighing, Zack Addy walks away to grab an evidence bag and continue his work.

--

Review!

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	11. Grey

--

Grey

--

The machine beeps slowly, the sighing of a ventilator sometimes matching it and sometimes not. Around the room are dozens, no, hundreds of drawings and paintings, some filled in with color, and some simply black-on-white. There are familiar faces and there are strangers; there are flowers and rooms of light; there are fields filled with rain and snow. And she is in the center, blankets covering an ever-thinning body, her eyes worn and glazing.

A cough tears through the relative silence, the sound of lungs ripping and drowning underneath their own overtaxed cells. Her eyes flutter open briefly, now dull and uninterested, before squeezing closed again. Her fingers grip her blanket, their knuckles white and thin.

Cullen turns away as a man walks toward him, followed by a women. They are both in scrubs, hands tucked protectively over a clipboard, their gaits tired after long shifts. He talks with them, his wife behind him and watching in mournful silence. Long minutes pass.

Then they walk into the room where she is laying with a limp head and hands, the tube in her mouth rattling with her breathing. Words are spoken and her eyes flutter up briefly, unseeing, before flicking closed one last time. Then suddenly the ventilator stops sighing, and the beeping machine is in a frenzy before abruptly muting. More words are spoken and its over.

Then a sob, high and keening, pierces the air, its source shuddering and shrieking. Beside her, he stands silent, his heart gripped with a cold chill. It's like that for a long time, until the paintings are slowly removed, and the bed is stripped bare, and the only thing left is a dull grey, a grey with no depth or feeling. The color is gone, as are the roses and tulips, the green pastures and autumn forests, and now it's just grey. Grey like the walls, like her eyes, and his heart.

--

Review!

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	12. Safety First

--

Safety First

--

"Okay, bub," Booth says. "Now, this is the first day I've gotten to take you to the park by yourself, so you and I have to be really careful."

"Why?" his young son asks.

"'Cause otherwise Daddy's going to get into big trouble."

"Twouble, huh?"

"That's right. So come here, please."

He does, and Booth reaches onto a nearby bench to pull off a few things. Parker stands still as he ties the padding over all of the boy's joints, as well as his head.

"It's kinda heavy, Dad," Parker's muffled voice comes through a piece of fabric.

"Yeah, but it's to protect you."

"From what?"

"Well, if you fall and hurt yourself this padding will make sure you don't get hurt."

"Like armor?"

"Exactly. Think of yourself as a knight in shining armor."

"Lisa says those don't exist."

"Well, Lisa's wrong. Now go out and have fun," he says and gently nudges his son forward. Parker looks at him dubiously before running off.

"Knight in shining armor?" a voice repeats from behind him and he turns to see his partner, her hair tied back in a pony tail and something that looks suspiciously like a salad in her hands.

"Yeah." He leans back and regards her from his twisting position, "What are you doing out here, Bones?"

"It was a beautiful day and I decided to take a walk," she says and easily slips over the fence separating them.

"From where?"

She gestures behind her and sits next to him. "Sid's."

"Ah."

She looks at Parker. "What's with all the padding?"

"Just wanted to make sure he kept safe."

"You seem to feel a need to ensure that with everyone around you," she forks what is indeed a leaf of salad and pops it in her mouth. "Even though you forgo the same precautions with yourself."

"Like when?"

"When was the last time you wore a seatbelt?"

"That's in case I need to bail out of the car in a hurry."

"Well, you would. Through the windshield."

He snorts at the same time Parker manages to fall off the monkey bars. Leaping up, he calls, "You alright?" already half-way to his son.

"I'm fine," Parker says and then attempts to roll over. "But I can't get up."

Booth laughs and pulls him up, "There you go, bub. All set."

He quickly skitters away.

"You see?" the agent says, walking back over to Brennan. "Safety first."

She raises an eyebrow as Parker falls over again, having tripped in the sandbox. "Apparently at the expense of free movement."

"Eh," he says, getting up again. "Technicalities, Bones. Technicalities."

She laughs as he walks away.

--


	13. Advertisement

--

Advertisement

--

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"Good lord," Brennan mutters.

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"Jeez."

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_Simon Cowell!_

The power shuts down with a hiss and a sudden snap.

"Is this why people watch TV?" she asks the air. "To listen to commercials sandwiched between reality television?"

The air, as would be expected, does not reply.

She sighs, wondering if she can get a refund or if she should give the television to her partner. He was the one who had started this whole mess to begin with.

Her eyes wander back to the now dark screen, and she stares at it for a few minutes.

"What the hell?" she shrugs to herself. "It's the weekend."

The TV clicks back on.

_Have you been injured in an auto—_

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_Call now and we'll—_

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"_...Nobody has breakfast at Tiffany's, and no one has affairs to remember. Instead we have breakfast at seven a.m. and affairs we try to forget as quickly as possible."_

Brennan's interest caught, at least for a moment, she settles in to watch seemingly the only channel on television that is not playing some sort of advertisement.

--

Ten points if you recognize that line.


	14. Give Up

And...we're back to the dark ones. The three that follow are following events in "Aliens;" not a fun subject, but these were still nice to write.

--

Give Up

--

It was quiet. Time seemed erratic. It was moving quickly, but the individual seconds seemed to last for eons. And yet every time she glanced at the clock another hour had passed. But the time for looking at clocks and hours was done. There was just the present.

The wires slid through her fingers.

Just the present. Just...this.

His voice, low and throaty, interrupted the quiet that had lasted for merely a few seconds, instead of the weeks she would've attributed it to.

"Anyone you want to say goodbye to?"

Her eyes met his.

She felt a recoil in her gut, as if she'd just been stabbed. But her muscles didn't tense, and her breathing didn't increase, and the pain was gone almost before it had a chance to register.

She exhaled, and felt the pain that had been in her gut blow into the air, and whatever tightness her shoulders had held loosened, and they sagged imperceptibly.

Her eyes drifted down, and her molars clamped together as she swallowed. With a hand stained crimson, she reached for his offering and took it, glancing at it only briefly as she reached for her book to lean on, and a pen to write with, as the wires slid from her fingers, and her foot shifted in the dirt, and her back bowed to what only her mind dared admit.

--


	15. Pen and Paper

The inevitable "goodbye" letter.

And, no, it's _not_ fluffy.

--

Pen and Paper

--

_I have never written a good-bye letter._

Her pen paused, her fingers sliding down the stem, for it felt as if she no longer had the will to hold it straight. Forcing the sickness in her gut to subside, she readjusted, closing her eyes briefly as she inhaled and exhaled.

_I have never written a good-bye letter. Not to a lover, not to a friend, and not to my family. The irony that I am writing it here, on a page from my first novel, does not escape me._

She stopped again, not knowing where to go. Behind her, Hodgins' breathing was erratic in his sleep, and, pressing pen firmly to paper, she forced her fingers to move again.

_I don't know when or if any of you will ever read this, and as such I can only speak about the present as I know it. Any hopes I may express might potentially cause some pain if any of you have not gone the direction I envision, and I apologize in advance if this occurs._

She inhaled.

_Angela, my friend._

_I feel that I must thank you for all that you have managed to do for both the Jeffersonian and myself. Hodgins and I may have formed the forensics unit, but you were the proverbial glue that held us together in times of discord—even when you were feeling emotionally vulnerable or drained yourself. And though I may not have always behaved like it, your advice and guidelines kept me afloat in interpersonal situations where I would have normally been floundering. I wish I had had a chance to tell you this, though, knowing your perceptive abilities, you probably knew without me having to have told you._

_You have been a good friend to me, the best of my friendships. I thank you for being there, through the best and worst times. It is my hope that you have and will remain at the Jeffersonian, but if you don't, or you didn't, know that I would understand. Keep well._

Once again, the pen stopped, and she felt another wave of nauseating pain hit her stomach before traveling up and settling around her chest, suddenly understanding what it meant to have a heavy heart.

Exhaling, she wrote the next name.

_Zack, my brightest pupil._

_It saddens me that I will not be there when you earn your doctorate. You have shown great promise. More promise, perhaps, then I ever did. I believe that you could surpass my own accomplishments, and hope that you do. I realize that as I leave now, you are not yet qualified to fill my position, but it is also my hope that you will be able to stay through proper negotiation. I will leave with you with one last piece of advice: consult Angela if you believe that you are not communicating adequately with either your peers or an investigator, and do not allow yourself to be bullied out of your assertions. Stay strong._

An image of Zack Addy, with his floppy hair and boyish grin, standing erect and telling off a misguided cop projected onto the page, and she inhaled sharply in a silent chuckle. She blinked, and a drop of wetness fell from her eye and onto the page, distorting the image like a pebble thrown into water, and her smile slipped away.

Wiping her eyes with a dusty hand, she readjusted and began to write again.

_Cam._

_Although there was friction between us, I did come to form respect for both your work and your judgment. I believe that, given the chance, we would have worked at a much higher rate of proficiency. I regret that we didn't end on friendlier terms._

_As to my replacement, Zack, despite the issue of his doctorate, would perform well if given the chance. Once he receives his PhD, my request is that you will hire him as an independent forensic anthropologist, and my successor._

Brennan paused, knowing that that was probably something she was not entitled to request, but the thought of the Jeffersonian without her coworkers was almost too much for her to bear.

Her pen hit paper once more.

_Please keep the team together, and offer your support if they need it._

She inhaled, some far corner of her mind telling her that that request was bordering out-of-line, but she moved forward. Cam was farthest from them emotionally, and as such she would be able to hold everyone together without straining herself to the breaking point.

Her partner's name came to her mind next, and she wrote it down, beginning to feel numb.

_Booth, my partner and loyal friend._

_I would like to thank you for the opportunities you provided me. In the United States, with my qualifications, it is highly unlikely I would have seen investigative work. I know that your toleration of me is what made this possible, and I would like to thank you for that as well._

_On a more personal level, and at the risk of sounding like a psychologist, I know you are likely to blame yourself for our deaths, but I want you to know that the blame is solely on my shoulders, and I harbor no ill feelings toward you. I imagine you did everything you could have done, and that knowledge should be enough for both you and I._

She stopped, knowing he wasn't going to like what she was about to write, but feeling the need to have it known anyway.

_My final request to you, Booth, is that you renew our partnership with Zack. Under your guidance, I feel he could learn "the ways of the world," as well as increase his social skills dramatically—something we both know he needs. Perhaps, with effort, you both could reach the level of proficiency that we did. And, because of your interpersonal skills, I would also like you to look after Angela, who will need external support. I believe that these are both responsibilities that you can handle, and will not take lightly._

_Thank you._

Brennan stopped again, having reached the end of the page. There was one other person she had to write to, and she ripped out another sheet of paper to do it.

_Russ._

_I am sorry that we ended on such bitter terms, and apologize for all of the calls I have ignored, and all the heated words we exchanged when I did. If Dad does contact you, please tell him..._

Her pen stopped moving. She didn't know what she would tell her father if she had the chance. She didn't even know what she would say to Russ. Although she had memories from her younger years, they were suppressed, and tinged with bitterness. She decided to say something she wasn't sure she believed, but thought it would offer some solace.

_...please tell him I loved him._

_Stay out of trouble, and take care of yourself._

_Polo._

That was it. There was no one else to write to. Five people, and her final written words, and that was it.

She folded the paper and pressed it to her book to write one last note before stuffing it into her pocket.

_The contents of this letter are to be delivered, personally, to Special Agent Seeley Booth of the District of Columbia. Although I'm aware it's protocol, for the sake of both personal and professional honor, I request that __only__ the person named above reads and distributes this letter._

_My name was Dr. Temperance Brennan._

--


	16. Last Hope

This Theme is best read while listening to the song "Angel," as sung by Sarah McLachlan. That's what I wrote it to, that's what I watched the scene to, and thus my style is influenced a bit by the song.

Also, going out of town tomorrow and won't be back for a few days, thus no updates. Apologize for the inconvenience. Things come up, you know...

--

Last Hope

--

The light had failed, and the wires were cold between her fingers. She had just slipped the last one into place when there was a pop, and it was dark. Hodgins had awoken at the sudden change, and her heart beat was so loud she was sure he had heard it, but his voice, low and tortured, told her otherwise.

"Is it over?"

"No," she said, and reached onto the passenger seat to retrieve a flash light. "No. It's not over."

"It's not over," he repeated as she clicked on the light. "It's not over." In the blue radiance, he leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes.

"Hodgins," she said quietly. "Hodgins, I need you to stay with me."

"I'm here."

She put the flashlight into her mouth and tasted the hard plastic as her teeth clamped down, and held the two wires in separate hands. "Take this," she said, and held out one of them.

Without opening his eyes, he reached out and took hold of her offering.

The flashlight jarred her teeth as she slid over the console to join him on the back seat, and she quickly spat it out and caught it in her free hand. When she looked over, Hodgins' eyes were slits and she nudged him with her shoulder.

His eyes flickered open wider.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah," he breathed, his eyes still downcast. Her own eyes felt glassy as she watched his shaking hand move his wire closer to her own. "Dr. Brennan?"

She looked up, and for the first time since he had given her the paper they made eye-contact.

"It's been a privilege."

A stab of pain hit her gut, and she swallowed hard as he lifted his free hand and offered it to her. She did not take it, or even glance at it, as she wrapped her arm around his shoulder and held him tight.

She could feel his breath on her still throbbing neck, and squeezed her eyes shut, opening them when she felt the sting of tears in her corneas. They didn't sob, but drew strangled breaths, and separated silently.

He took the wire from her, and she watched as his hands came together, her feet planted to the floor as her muscles tensed. The two wires sparked as they came together, and then there was a flash, and their whole confinement shuddered as glass exploded and the ceiling collapsed.

Brennan and Hodgins exchanged one last glance before he was suddenly swallowed, and the light was stifled and buried, and dust and dirt filled her nostrils and mouth. She found the opening blindly, her eyes squeezed closed, and clawed at the sediment which was already rushing to fill the hole they had created, seeking to erase them entirely.

Her lungs shuddered in her chest, and she coughed, inhaling dirt. Her arms began feeling heavy and she could barely continue to swim haphazardly toward what she believed was the surface. Fabric brushed against her skin and then something warm and strong wrapped around her wrist and began pulling, the dirt sucking her back under as her arm screamed in its socket. Then it was around her chest, and the dirt was cascading off her head and shoulders as she was pulled to the surface and the air. Her eyes opened briefly before shutting again, conscious fluttering like a crushed butterfly, but she recognized her partner as he laid her down.

"Get Hodgins," she mumbled, her strength sapped. "Get..." the words wouldn't come, and she quieted, rolling onto her side as her fingers relaxed in the dirt.

Time was erratic again. The sounds around her seemed to be coming in as if from an old transmission unit, and it felt like she had lain there forever when the gravelly voice of Hodgins told her he was safe. Her arm tensed as she pushed herself up, her pupils painfully dilated as they opened to see the great expanse of dirt, and the fresh hole where they had been buried.

Then Booth crawled to her side, and their eyes met. A smile pulled at both of their lips until they were both laughing, and behind them cars skid to a stop and people jumped out, saying words she didn't comprehend because they were safe, and their final fight had been won, and their last hope had been realized. They had survived.

--


	17. Obsession

--

Obsession

--

Cars pulled in, pulled out. People hopped out and milled around. Some went in the building but most didn't, waiting around and exchanging small and relatively meaningless words with their closest neighbors. He didn't. He just sort of stood there, in a back area approximately six feet from the door. People didn't talk to him, they talked around him, and that was fine. He didn't want to talk to them anyway.

He adjusted his shirt. It was starched with a high collar and buttons running all the way through. It had taken him a while to iron it out to crisp condition, but he had managed it. His black blazer was also ironed and rolled with that sticky paper that took off hair and fibers. He thought he looked very handsome. Others thought his pupils were unnaturally dilated and to stay away.

And he did stay away. Stayed away from them. Stayed away from the doormen especially. They were looking. Looking for him. He knew. They wanted to prevent him from seeing _her_ but that wasn't going to happen.

He pulled a piece of chocolate from his pocket and ate it. It was in a small crinkly wrapper and he glanced around before ripping it open and eating it, making sure no one heard him. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all.

She pulled up with a fanfare of entirely someone else's creation, looking around herself as if she was surprised to see so many people here. She seemed to almost be looking, searching the crowds. Searching for him. Well, he would go over and see her then, if she wanted to find him so badly. He grinned. She stepped from the car and the crowd parted like the waves for Moses, only she was female and much more attractive.

She wore a long maroon dress, a silver-and-red necklace adorning her chest and earrings to match dangled from her partially put-up hair. She wore just enough mascara to make her eyes look steely gray. People thought her eyes were blue, but they were gray, and he noticed that her make-up and clothing would change her eye color, as well as how she felt. Her eyes were always gray for him. He loved gray.

He went inside before she did, slipped through while her arrival distracted the guards at the door, and he waited among those who had come in before him. She took her seat at the table to the right, large plates of food surrounding her sides. She reached for something on a toothpick and consumed it, all the while her eyes roving the crowds, looking for him.

Someone announced something on the speakers, and her eyes flicked up, and then she said something into the microphones, and her voice carried over the speakers while people poured in her direction. He got there almost first, her book clutched inside his blazer. If he didn't hold it there, someone would steal it and offer it to her, and she would be unable to find him to return it to him.

The first people said small words to her, and she smiled and shook their hands, and signed their books with words he was too far away to read. Then they were gone, and he was there in front of her, his book outstretched to her as her eyebrows rose.

"Oliver?" she said with that slight curl of confusion to her voice that she always had whenever she saw him. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for you to sign my book."

"You have come to all of my release parties, and there I have signed all of your books."

"Then I'd like you to sign this one, please."

He loved that bemused grin on her face, that special grin just for him.

"Okay," she said, and clicked her pen, and wrote words on his book.

"Thank you, Dr. Brennan." He stood there, didn't move. He knew this time she would say something different.

"You're welcome," she said and then watched him, her eyebrow slowly raising until it almost was hidden behind her bangs. "Anything else?"

"No." He still stood there.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

She glanced behind him. "There are other people waiting, Oliver, so..."

"Oh, of course." He shifted aside. "I'll talk to you later then."

"Okay." She eyed him as he walked away, watching until she apparently couldn't see him anymore as he melted into the crowds.

Two men met him as he stepped outside to go back to waiting.

"Sir."

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "Lovely night, isn't it?"'

They exchanged glances. "Sir, how did you get in?"

"I walked in. The door was open. She invited me inside."

"Um..." They looked at each other. "No. She didn't."

"She didn't say it, but I know she wanted me there."

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

He smiled. "Of course. You guys have been so understanding, you know that." He patted the closest one's shoulder and walked away. "So understanding."

He could feel their stares as he walked away. He would be back.

--


	18. Puzzle

--

Puzzle

--

His hand slid lightly over the polished cardboard pieces, their dull brown coloration unchanged from piece to piece. The only difference was in size and shape; in the curves and contours; in the grooves and pockets. He brushed them together and apart, lips moving to form silent words as he thought to himself, rearranging and calculating, occasionally slipping two pieces together to form more of what was essentially nothing—just one giant brown blob on the floor.

It was an uninteresting and rather unsatisfying activity. It took very little effort, just trial-and-error and bits of memory. This wasn't a game, it was insipid. He knew he should have asked for something else before she had left him. But he had been distracted. Hell, he was always distracted. This was no place to have one's head in the present. It had to be elsewhere. Out of the room, out of the building, out of the area.

It was usually memory. Satisfying memories. But he had found that with age those images had faded, and his mind no longer took relish in them. Instead, they had started to become as boring as the puzzle.

Well, all except one.

His hand paused in its half-unconscious movements, and he slipped from his mind like an octopus from a small tube. A momentary hitch in fluidity. He didn't know why at first, but as his eyes skimmed over the pieces he realized the automaton movements had become disrupted, and that there were a few pieces missing from this particular part of the puzzle. He stared at them and reached for a promising piece before recoiling as his wrist screamed in pain.

Holding it to his chest, he reached out with his other hand, his mind flashing back to that day only a little less than a year ago. As his fingers closed over the cardboard, a smile snaked up his face and his heart began to race.

He slipped the last pieces into place before rising, stroking his hand as if it was something that he had only just noticed was attached to his arm.

Yes, he thought to himself, his fingers brushing a small picture he had obtained from only god knew where. Yes, yes, yes.

Laughter filled the cell, cold and maniacal, starting at a low hum but slowly increasing to a high-pitched hysteria. They filled his throat and tore his lungs, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as if joining in the absurd sounds. They died abruptly, his eyes shining, and his veins throbbing in his neck.

Yes, Epps thought. She was a puzzle indeed. And he was the only man to solve her.

-////////-

Although I'm aware that a lot of you simply pop in, read, and then pop out (which is fine), as an author it is tough for me to be posting two of my most recent and longest works and receive so little feedback. Truly, every time you take the time to leave me a word—as contrived as it sounds—it lightens my day. I deeply appreciate those who have left me reviews, and to the rest of you I would like to ask that you take a moment to do so. I know there are a lot of Themes, and I am not asking all of you to review each and every one, but if you do have a few seconds, and you have enjoyed any of what you have read thus far, I would greatly appreciate it if you told me so.


	19. Mirror

--

Mirror

--

The shower water rushed over cool tile, wetting the glass door and walls. She eyed it vaguely, her attention roving the bathroom as she waited, ears trained for sounds, muscles tense for movement. Her eyes stopped on the mirror.

Seven people. And an eighth. Only one was her fault, on her shoulders. She could still feel the cool steel in her hands, the recoil of the barrel as the gun jarred her hands, the sudden streak of smoke as it cleared to reveal a dead man. Dead before he had fallen. It was her fault.

She shifted the steel thing in her hand. Maybe that's why she could feel it. She had a gun in her hand. And she was waiting. But not for just anything or anyone. Him. Maybe that was why. Why she remembered. Maybe. She didn't know.

And then there had been the scream and the panicking, and the realization that Angela had been targeted. And then Parker was in danger, had contact with him, was gone and had her partner scared. Her fault. He said it was her fault. And she believed him.

She stared at herself, poised with the gun, jaw set, eyebrows creased. She looked scary, like herself but distorted, and not just literally because of the fog, but because she feared he had been right when he said those things to her, even if she never really believed it. But standing here waiting and staring at oneself seemed to cause a certain amount of self-reflection.

It was her fault. But if she didn't believe it, why did she blame herself?

She didn't know.

She looked away, but her eyes crawled back, met her own. She watched, absorbed, half-thinking that maybe the image would move on its own, or maybe a face would appear. Maybe Booth would appear. Tell her she was nuts. Batty. Insane. That she should wait for him and the rest of the cavalry to save her. But she didn't want to be saved, had never wanted to be saved. She could take care of herself. Didn't the gun, and the apartment, and her work tell them that?

She paused. Who was this 'they'? She shrugged to herself. She didn't know.

And besides, she knew something. Something she hadn't disclosed to the concerned agents stationed dutifully outside her door. She didn't know why she didn't tell them. It was risky. Almost suicidal, really. But she could take care of herself. No way was that sonovabitch going to tango with her and get away with it. She was sick of being rescued, being protected. If people were going to screw with her, she would screw right back. She didn't want to have to defend herself on anyone else's terms.

Her fingers tapped the gun idly. She shifted her weight. Cocked her head. She watched herself, watched as the glass continued to fog over.

She knew he would come, and knew it would be tonight. Their war had reached a climax. She could sense it. She didn't know how he would get past the army outside her door, but she knew he would. And she wouldn't want it any other way.

A small smile touched her lips.

Wouldn't it be ironic if she died tonight with the FBI stationed outside her door?

But she wouldn't die. If there was anything she was certain of, it was that.

Epps would die tonight.

Her mind threw that out there, and she felt like she had heard that gun go off in her hands again, ringing enough to make her deaf. She stared at the metal thing in her hand. Would he really? By her hands? But then he would be right, and she would be no better than him.

Maybe that was his game. His end-game. Maybe he wanted to die tonight. Perhaps his ultimate goal was either for her to die, or for him to die, and both scenarios would ultimately be her fault.

She stared at herself, met her own hard gray eyes.

And she didn't feel even the slightest bit of remorse at that thought. Not a wit.

That ghost of a smile was back.

Interesting what a serial killer and self-reflection could do to one's thought processes. Her very own _Lord of the Flies _moment. She smiled thinly at her own joke. God, she hated psychology.

She glanced up, and felt her heart begin to race. Something was different in that mirror. Her hand twitched, her other wrapped around it. Her finger explored the trigger. She stared. Something shiny. It wasn't her light. It moved. It was a crowbar.

She glanced at herself one last time as she moved from the mirror. Her eyes were hard, her expression grim. But she smiled. That thin smile she felt on her lips as a prelude to some reckless act of self-defense.

Yes, a certain amount of self-reflection. Her very own _Lord of the Flies_ moment.

She turned and met Epps, and the gun was in her hands, and the crowbar was in his.

She stared at that shocked look on his face.

Her very own _Lord of the Flies _moment. And she wasn't afraid.

But he was.

--

There is one other Epps one, but that one I will post in a little while.


	20. Relaxation

--

Relaxation

--

Waves of white rolled toward the gray beach with one single unhurried motion, pushing back out to sea with even less effort. Water flowed over footprints, pushing them deeper into the sand and softening their edges.

The smell of the sea was in the air, sharp and salty, and it merely teased the skin with a chilly bite as it passed over, on its way toward nothing else but a few seabirds and an old rustic house.

Her hands flowed over the paper with the same fluid and relaxed motions that the waves at her feet did. When she glanced up, the sun was beginning its descent, kissing gold clouds before ultimately meeting the slate gray waters with all the intimacy of a lover's embrace. Cliché, yes, but it sounded right.

At her back, an old palm tree shifted in the breeze, letting loose a dried-up leaf to fall in her arms. She caressed it between her fingers before letting it go, her eyes following it as it was blown into sea water and pulled into the few inch depths. She added it to her painting, reaching onto the beach beside her for her smallest brush before adding her signature to the bottom corner, flowing around a rock and a piece of kelp.

She leaned back against rough bark and stared at the dulling sun and the bleeding tones of crimson in the clouds, the sky blazing like flames as the sun touched the water and was slowly snuffed out. She rose as the air cooled and the last bits of light waned, her feet pressing into loose sand and small pebbles as she walked to the old beach house.

Three weeks of sketching plants and the ocean, and not one dead man had shown up for her to draw. This was most definitely the life.

Smiling tranquilly to herself, Angela headed to bed, feeling at one with the world.

--


	21. Mischief Managed

--

Mischief Managed

--

"You ready?" Zack asked, the wind blowing his lab coat in two different directions as it buffeted Hodgins' face.

"Of course I'm ready," the entomologist replied. "You sure you got all the calculations correct?"

"Yes. I did the math very carefully."

"Does Cam know about this?"

His eyebrows crinkled, "No. I thought you were going to tell her."

"We agreed that you would do it."

"Why?"

"Because, out of the two of us, you have the more innocent face."

"I do?"

"Yes. And besides, I did it last time."

"I apologize. Should I go ask her now?" he made to back up.

"No," Hodgins grabbed his lab coat and pulled him back. "It's too late for that. Did you at least inform Dr. Brennan?"

"No," he said.

Hodgins ran a hand over his face, "For the love of god, why?"

"She was on the phone."

He exhaled.

"Did I do something wrong?" Zack's face was morphing into one of slight distress.

"No," Hodgins sighed again. "No. It'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Okay."

"Okay."

They stood there for a moment.

"Shouldn't one of us drop it?"

Hodgins glanced at him. "You're the one who screwed all this up. You drop it."

"Why?"

"Because, that way, if Cam's going to fire us, the blame will all be on your shoulders."

His eyebrows crimped, "But you are standing here. You're going to be equally at fault."

"Fine," he took the plastic thing from Zack's hands. "I'll drop it."

"Okay."

Rolling his eyes, Hodgins held the thing out into the chilly air and dropped it. The two of them watched it fall to the ground and shatter.

A smile broke out over both their faces.

"Want to see what happened?" Hodgins asked.

"Very much," Zack replied.

They galloped to the elevator and the entomologist stabbed impatiently at the "down" button.

"You're aware that no matter how many times you press it, the elevator will still move at the same set pace, right?" Zack asked eventually.

"Yeah." His heart-beat was still fast and he felt the need to release it. "Was that your run?"

"Yes. I never was particularly adept when it came to my athleticism."

He snorted, "I'm not surprised."

He was saved from Zack's response by the doors opening.

They rushed from the building, but before they could get to their project, Jeffersonian security had intercepted them.

"Hey!" Hodgins protested as they handcuffed both him and Zack. "What's wrong with you people? Can't you see this is an important scientific project?"

"Lab personnel isn't automatically authorized just because you work here," the white suit holding him replied.

He muttered something.

"What was that?"

The sound of sirens cut off his chance for a reply, as well as the voice of one of the three people he didn't want to hear, "Who is it?"

"Is he dead?" the third voice he didn't want to hear followed.

"Yes," Zack replied. "But only because he was never alive."

Brennan and Booth, who had both been galloping to the scene, stopped abruptly in front of their plastic skeleton and exchanged a look.

"Gotta be kidding me," Booth said.

"Look at this," Hodgins said. "The Gestapo is interfering with free inquiry!" he turned to glare at his holder.

"Guys, just let 'em go," the agent said, rubbing his face. "If they try to escape, shoot 'em." He looked at Zack. "What's with the dummy, dummies?"

Uncuffed, the two quickly ran forward to explain, and, to their not-so-great surprise, Brennan's annoyance subsided the instant she saw the rational behind their actions, and she seemed to forget her original panic. Booth, on the other hand, merely looked annoyed.

"Alright, that's it," the agent announced after their conclusions had been voiced, "No shooting of the squints tonight. Sorry." He began to walk away. "Alright, good work. Let's go, Bones." He led the anthropologist away, the crowd around them already dispersing.

Hodgins and Zack exchanged a fist-bump.

Mischief managed.

--


	22. Break Away

--

Break Away

--

The lab tables always seemed to either ooze or drip. Generally, if they were oozing, the fluids were staying on the table. Dripping and they were still oozing, but onto the floor. And her shoes. And her apron.

Luckily, the bodies that came in were usually somewhat intact. There was definite maggot activity, but it wasn't nearly as horrid as it could have been. In fact, some were so fresh they looked live. And she had gotten bodies from the local hospitals, or the occasional death row inmate who's final card had finally been dealt. Sometimes those were warm. It was strange to cut into flesh that still felt as it had in life.

Despite the fact that some of the bodies were manageable, the small percent that weren't made the job seem rather miserable. The ventilation system was pathetic. If a putrefied body was in, all four of the lab workers knew about it. In fact, even the security guard who would not come downstairs for his life knew about it. The occasional cops who showed up to harass them would know as well. In all likelihood, Cam was sure, even the pedestrians trotting outside the building were aware that something putrid was contained within the building.

But that was all irrelevant. The fact of the matter was that the morgue stank whenever anything further along in decomp than usual came in. She may have a strong stomach, but the powerful odor of death was something that she wasn't entirely used to. There was a reason she had not decided to specialize in putrefied bodies, just as there was a reason she hadn't become a pediatrician—though those reasons were slightly different. That reason, among other things, was that she had never had the ability to completely ignore smell. She was used to it, yes, but she could still smell it. And that smell made her crabby. Very crabby.

And, of course, there was the issue of equipment. Slicing and dicing skin with discount scalpels. Clipping the sternum with bush cutters. Cleaning bones in pans bought from a local kitchen-supply store. As she climbed up the pyramid of control in the Coroner's office, the reason for the crap equipment became clear. Namely, their funding was about as thick and fast as the material that oozed from rotting innards. Slower even. And when she became the Chief and began to attend political meetings, she was forced to take even more cuts. Sometimes she even bought some of the equipment with her own limited pocket money.

Although under her leadership the office managed to turn respectable, and gain employees and guests, the morgue itself was still underfunded. Morale was low. Offices were small. Phones were sometimes answered by MEs who had been unlucky enough to walk by when they rang. Nobody—not even Cam, the Chief—was paid much, even after the morgue became the state's official ME office, and they moved to a new building a few blocks away from a meat-packing plant. Though they did finally hire a security guard who was willing to check downstairs if asked. Twice.

Despite these improvements in the morgue-atmosphere, as well as public interest, Cam got the feeling no one was really happy—even after the inspirational and tear-jerking wedding of two of the lab personnel, Jim and Julie. She had been working there for a long time, had improved the state of affairs, and had learned how to heard cats. It was all very impressive. She had garnered much respect in her field. However, she was not all that happy herself. After all, Booth had left, the guys she had been on-and-off dating were usually only interested because of delusions spawned by marathons of shows like _CSI_, and her responsibility with budgets and the hiring-and-firing of state employees was draining, to say the least. She was sick of the crap equipment, the funding issues, the politics, and the fact that any and all major cases that the office had, as well as its subsequent reporters, had to be handled by her. And after one major scandal in the morgue, which, as it turned out, had been instigated by a congressman with an agenda, Cam finally tossed in the towel, and started a secret job hunt.

Three weeks, several "maybe"s, and many shots later, she had the answer she had been waiting for.

She had sent the application to the Institute on a whim. It was a joke, really. The most prestigious and well-funded lab in the country. A bit of romanticism. And she always liked a good gamble. Even when she was offered an interview by one of the administrators, she was skeptical.

But the "yes" changed everything.

When she left, there was a fair amount of ado. Reporters who had harassed her for years were suddenly congratulatory. Lab workers all patted her on the back. Security guards gave her thumbs up. "Congratulations," she knew they thought, "You've finally escaped this hell-hole." When she left the morgue for the last time via the garage, everyone waved her a final goodbye, encouraging words, and pieces of advice. Then all was gone, and a day later she stepped into a lab over three times the size of her old haunt.

Yes, Cam had thought, She had most certainly broken away. This was the height of the forensics labs, the crème-de-la-crème of equipment and budgeting. And she was head of a whole frigging department.

A week later a letter arrived in the mail. Jim and Julie had gotten a divorce.

--


	23. Are You Challenging Me?

--

Are You Challenging Me?

--

Unfortunately, what Cam had not seen coming with the job change was, admittedly, one of its most obvious components. Namely, its associated employees.

At the OCME, Cam had never had this sort of issue. Even when it had become the state's official morgue, the people employed there were mostly the same as the ones who had been there all along. Those who were new were likely interns who had or were in the process of climbing the ladder in the office. The rare few who had been employed from an already high position at another morgue, with doctorate or doctorates in tow, were more or less cynical and had no real desires to make themselves either noticeable or a nuisance. They were fine with what they were: forensic pathologists, and they made no moves to change.

But the Jeffersonian's forensics unit was quite different.

Upon first arrival, Cam had been greeted by a bouncy dark-haired artist who had just come back from lunch, who had assumed that Cam had become lost in the morgue and needed a guide to find her way out. After realizing her mistake, she—Angela Montenegro, as Cam later found out—suddenly switched from cheery to annoyed, gave a quick introduction, and left the lab in the direction of the Museum Proper. At this point, she had been passed onto two men, one bearded with curly hair and the other tall and thin with brown floppy hair and harried brown eyes, who had argued amongst themselves for giving her an official tour, settled the matter with rock-paper-scissors, and finally turned to deal with her. Or rather Zack did, as Hodgins had won. She didn't know quite when they had given their names. She only knew that they had.

As Cam was given the tour, eventually helped out by an irritated though slightly amused Angela, as well as Hodgins, one name continually popped up. Brennan. Over and over. This "Brennan's" office was pointed out to her, and she noted that it was near the wood stairs to the left, and was large and contained a couch and many artifacts. The office was dark, and, upon asking, Cam was told that this person was out and would be back at a later point in time. The pathologist was given the impression that this person seemed to run the joint and would be her main competition when the time came for final rulings.

What she didn't realize was how much competition this Brennan could provide.

The scientists proved easy enough to work around. They were a close bunch, and, for the most part, were ruled by logical reflection. Since Zack was handling the bones, and Cam preferred the flesh, they would both patiently wait their turns when either's expertise was needed and she soon learned his quirks and adjusted accordingly. And although Hodgins was fiery, without a strong leader to troop under he would normally fold if pressured enough. But because he mostly stayed to his own turf anyway, their disputes were minimal and were usually over frivolous things—like who would purchase the next day's doughnuts. Angela was charming and understanding, and they got along fairly quickly. Cam sensed, however, that she was waiting for something. And what she was waiting for became clear after Temperance Brennan returned from her vacation.

Brennan, as Booth had warned, had reserved her judgment until well after their first forensic case. Cam had already approached the red zone once with her, and the incident had already been dubbed the Great Spam Fiasco of 2006. After this, she sensed that the anthropologist was holding back, only testing her when she felt the need to do so. The rest of the time, Brennan simply ignored her.

This was frustrating.

Employees at the OCME worked independently. After all, they were all pathologists, and they all sliced up dead bodies. They didn't rely on each other except for additional help. Here, however, there was a team effort involved, and Brennan's department was admittedly one of the most crucial.

Brennan was fully aware of her importance in the lab. She was also extremely resistant and preferred to do things the way she had wanted to do them to begin with—no matter how it may look like in court or to police. For a rational person, she certainly did not listen when the argument was to limit either her or her team's work. And arguing with the anthropologist was nigh impossible. She always seemed to slip away or somehow win before Cam had a chance to realize what was going on. Sometimes she would even be dismissed without realizing it, dumped on her ass outside Brennan's office like so much stale confetti and looking like a fool for trying in the first place.

Secondarily, her presence seemed to spawn the courage of Hodgins, who would then encourage Zack to do whatever experiment they had cooked up over late nights racing beetles. Angela also seemed to act more recklessly, and it felt as if they believed that as long as their fearless leader was around, limits could be pushed, pulled, and stretched like laffy-taffy to suit their needs. This would be a nightmare for any administrator. But as a pathologist with limited patience, Cam found that her patience was being severely tested.

The tension between them—whether Brennan was aware of it or not—built to a crescendo a few weeks after Dylan Krane had been buried. And at that time Cam moved in for a confrontation, stepping into Brennan's office and shutting the glass door carefully behind her.

Brennan looked up slowly, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. She gave no indications of an invitation, nor any outward signs of hostility. She merely looked vaguely annoyed, like a person who had suddenly noticed that there was a fly slowly working its way through her potato salad. She half-expected to be waved away or given some sort of wrist flick, but Brennan did nothing but wait.

So Cam spoke first, "We need to talk."

"About what?" the anthropologist replied levelly, sounding almost as interested as she would have been in the fly.

"Us. Boundaries. Expectancies. Red-zones."

Brennan leaned back, "Would you care to sit down?" she waved at a chair.

"Yes," she said. "I would."

She nodded as Cam took her seat, regarding her now with mild interest.

"Shall we begin?"

The pathologist nodded.

It was to be one of the most difficult arguments she had ever started or attempted to end.

--

Thank you to all who have reviewed. Please keep it up!


	24. Through the Fire

--

Through the Fire

--

"Overtime," Cam said only god knew how many minutes or hours after first walking into Brennan's office. "There's got to be a cap. You work perhaps twice what you're supposed to be paid for. I don't know how the Jeffersonian supported all of it, but for the amount of paperwork I'm filling out and cash I'm shelling out to all of you, this simply cannot work."

The anthropologist's eyebrows creased. Her look of annoyance had smoothed into one of boredom and frustration somehow mixed into one. Now it was just back to annoyance. "I don't work overtime for the pay, Dr. Saroyan. I do it either because I must or I want to."

"Yes. I realize that." Good god, would this never end? "However, I am not sure if you or I would be allowed to have you work overtime for free."

"Why not? Can't you just fudge it with Goodman?"

"First off, he doesn't handle this department anymore. He oversees the placement and distribution of artifacts for the main museum. And second of all, no, it's not that simple."

"Well," she shifted, no longer looking annoyed, just curious. "Can't I talk to him then?"

"Talk to who?"

"Whom."

Cam exhaled.

"The administrator. Or whoever is handling the wages."

She rubbed her face with her hand and closed her eyes. The person who handled all of the cash decisions when it came to the forensics lab was an irritated man. He wasn't fond of scientists, and Cam suspected he only dealt with her because she was more like an administrator herself given her history. And she was extremely pushy. But that was besides the point.

The Jeffersonian was heavily funded mostly by private institutions and a few families, all of which were almost literally swimming in cash. The other contributers were connected with the sciences in some form, who took up the remainder of the slack left by government funding. This was a great deal of money, and the vast majority of it went to the Medico-Legal Lab, which did not have the benefit of thousands of tourists for profit.

Although Brennan herself had been rumored to have contributed her own share of cash—most of which had probably, at some point or another, been her salary—it would be against protocol to allow her to work for free. Why this was so was one of those questions that didn't make any sense because, in reality, her working for free would save money in the long run.

Knowing all of this, Cam finally looked up to meet the anthropologist's eyes, which were analyzing her movements without effort, almost seeming to be unconscious.

"So?" she asked.

"Yes," Cam said, feeling not an ounce of sympathy for the man who would soon be getting a visit from Brennan. "You can speak to him."

"I will." She said nothing further, and Cam said nothing further. "Are we done?"

"No."

"No?"

"No." She didn't want to go on. She just wanted to go back to her office where it was quiet and serene and filled with corrosive chemicals to douse on annoying people who asked too many questions. "We have been talking about the little things that cause issues around the office, but not the big one."

"Which would be what, exactly?"

"You. Or, rather, your behavior."

"Me?"

"Yes, you." She was tired of the walk-arounds. Brennan was direct, but confused. And obviously she had absolutely no idea of the power ploy she had created simply by being there. She was aware of her influence, yes, but not of how much trouble her influence gave Cam to deal with. "This—" She gestured between them. "It's not working."

"What's not working?" The eyebrows were creased again.

"Us. Together. In the same lab."

"Why?"

"Because..." she exhaled. Anthropology. She had taken one of those classes before. Two decades ago. She could communicate this effectively so she could escape. "Because our work environment has been destabilized by the presence of two leaders, rather than one."

"You and I, you mean?"

"Yes." She was understanding this after all. "Here's the thing." She leaned forward, putting both hands on the glass desk. "You were here longer than me. In fact, next to Hodgins, you were the first one to practice forensics as a team rather than separate departments. And you were instrumental in the creation of the forensics team. Hell, the whole frigging department." One hand went up in an encompassing gesture. "And that's fine, and I respect that. Honestly. I really do. But _I_ was hired to head this circus, not you. You do know why, don't you?" She asked the question that had been bugging her for a while.

"Yes. Booth explained that it was because of the difference in our managerial approaches and the gap between you and I in the social realm. In the vernacular," she exhaled. "You're better with people."

At least she was honest. "Thank you." She moved on. "But, Dr. Brennan, you see, I have power because it was given to me. I'm at the top of the totem pole here, and you're second to me."

"Okay." The irritation was back, but more as an undercurrent than anything.

"But you hold the power socially. Which is ironic, really, since I'm the one who's supposedly better with people."

"I'm not sure I understand what you're talking about."

"Mm." She quickly thought out the best way to put it. "If I ask, say, Dr. Hodgins to do something, he would do it."

She nodded.

"But if you asked Dr. Hodgins to do something, he would also do that."

"Yes."

"But if I happened to ask him to do something differently than what you requested, or flat told him not to do what you asked, who do you think he would listen to?"

"I have no way of knowing. He could choose to do either."

"I am not asking for a factual answer. I am asking for your opinion." She would get her to voice it, dammit.

"But I don't know."

"Yes, you do, Brennan." She forgot to use the title. "You do know. Who would he listen to?"

She didn't answer for a few seconds as her eyes glazed over in thought. "Me," she said finally. "I believe that he would listen to me."

"There!" Cam said triumphantly. "And that's the reason what we're doing here isn't working."

"Oh."

Finally. She was finally getting it.

"So you're asking me to defer to you?"

Yes. She was. But pigs would sooner fly across the sky on feathered wings of grey. "No. I'm asking you to agree with me."

"But what if I don't agree with you?"

"Then for god sake just don't say anything. If you have a problem with my data, then voice your findings, but if you're disagreeing about investigative method, it is my expertise that should be trusted."

"Why?"

"Because I have more experience with people. You can't bake spam and present it in court. You can't toss fake bodies down elevator shoots, least of all monkeys. And you cannot run pigs through wood chippers."

"You heard about that?"

"Not the point. I know that you have built up a credible reputation in court, mostly because of your own advances and accomplishments. Your team, especially Zack, has not, and you could be potentially ruining their credibility by having them connected with bizarro experiments. Things like that turn off juries. They turn off lawyers. Hell, they turn of the judges. Courts aren't as impartial as they strive to be. They are subjective, just like anything that's not run by automatons is. This may or may not be information you're aware of, but I'm telling you that my own experience tells me that free rein can cause huge issues in a department that is connected both with local and federal law enforcement, and international affairs." She inhaled. "Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"No, because—You do?"

"Yes." She nodded. "Your argument was solid, albeit clouded with your own personal beliefs."

Clouded?

"And even my own limited understanding of voice inflection and body language tells me that this is obviously something you've given a great deal of thought to, and the fact that you have saved this issue until later in our conversation tells me that you are either intimidated by the thought of my reaction or you want to give me time to digest. And since you have not come here with the intention of ordering me around, but rather to negotiate, it is obvious that you're trying to reach a middle ground. In fact, that's what negotiate means." A hint of a smile peaked through her lips at the attempted joke. "Because I respect you as a scientist in your own right, and because I can understand some of the difficulties involved in running a department, I would be willing to reach a compromise."

"A compromise?" she repeated without realizing it.

"Yes," Brennan leaned forward. She was smiling now. "You said it yourself. I basically started this department. You wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for me. My intention is not to endow myself with power I may or may not have. However, because I have contributed so much, and because it is not in my nature to fold to pressure, I believe that this power struggle of ours must continue."

"For the love of god, why?"

"Because we are two independent scientists with two different though equally effective amounts of power."

She leaned back, thinking this entire conversation had been a waste of time after all.

"But, I can see where you're coming from. And thus I suggest a compromise."

"Shoot."

"I assume that means continue." She inhaled. "The team has always been only loosely organized. True, they listen to me, but normally I do not ask for them to check in at all. I am only interested in meaningful results, not necessarily the process by which those results are derived. As such, I only really hear about the experiments after they have been performed. I know you have asked that all things get run by you, but if it is true that they're more likely to listen to me, then _I_ will request that any and all experiments be authorized by you. I do not," her voice became chilly. "Like that this is an issue that their jobs depend on. After all, science is, more or less, about free inquiry that is later compiled into some sort of consensus. And controlling free inquiry does, to a certain degree, control the census. Thus I will lean on them to talk to you if you take the threat to their jobs off the table."

Brennan really could play hardball if she wanted to.

"I would be willing to sacrifice my own job security to ensure my team's. So if you must threaten someone, then threaten me." She exhaled. "And if this power struggle of ours mostly does revolve around our colleagues, then I am afraid that there is not much I could do to change that. But in the future I will refrain from encouraging behavior that is potentially detrimental. Does this help any?"

"Yes. Yes it does." And it did. At least, if felt like it did.

"And I will also make it clear that if you have an issue with me, then just speak to me in private. I will not bite off your head. Or I will attempt not to." She rose. "So is this it?"

"Yes."

She nodded and held out a hand, "To good feelings and worth ethic."

"And the balance of power," she took her hand.

They shook.

"So I will see you tomorrow, Dr. Saroyan," Brennan said, settling back onto her office chair. "And hopefully tomorrow will be a better day for us both."

"Yes. Hopefully."

They exchanged a smile and then Cam took her leave.

Painful, yes, She thought as she headed to her office and locked it up. But things have been accomplished, and they both had gotten through the fire unscathed and relatively untouched.

--

There you go, Jmbatt. It may have been nicer to stick the convo with the previous Theme, but I did have one hundred of these things and I needed to stretch out the story.

Leave a review on your way out, please. :)


	25. Seeing Red

Written on request back when I first posted...

I'm not proud of it, but I wrote it, so I'm posting it. Apologies to Mendenbar and to any who know better.

--

Seeing Red

--

Tim White rose from his oak desk and walked to his oak door at the sound of knocking. It was a clear and confident staccato; not timid like a nervous teenager strayed from class, and not astringent like a blustery employee come to scream at his underling. No, this was the knock of someone who fully expected the door to be opened and to be greeted with the expected amount of congeniality before being allowed to get down to business.

He scoffed. Like hell he'd be congenial. He had just found out his own vacation weeks were on a collision course with disaster; and because of a recent influx in paperwork due to a few new employees, he was unable to take that break. Why the hell should he care about some egg-head's complaint about a bad check?

He yanked open the door, revealing a woman taller than he was who wore a stiff high-collared shirt that barely hid the beads of a blood-red necklace, as well as a second man with curly hair, bright blue eyes, and a beard.

"What?"

He noticed that smirk on her face as her eyes flicked to his name card.

"Tim White?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Speaking."

"Odd name for someone who's working in a museum."

"I apologize for my parent's name choice." He wasn't sorry. "What the hell do ya want?"

"To speak to you."

"What the hell does he want?" he indicated the man behind her with his chin.

She stepped slightly in front of him. "He wanted to come. And I suggest you learn our names."

"Then what are they?"

"Dr. Temperance Brennan and Dr. Jack Hodgins."

"Ah. Egg-heads."

"Scientists," she said. Her tone was no longer light and was freezing over by the second. "I probably have twice the education of you, so why don't you show a little respect?"

"I wasn't aware that being an egg-head gave ya the right to boss me around."

"I wasn't aware that the Jeffersonian had pigs in their staff," Hodgins said from behind her.

"Hodgins," Brennan said. She looked back over at White. "And we have done nothing to warrant your hostility. So drop the machoism and let us in."

"Fine. Fine." White said, backing up from the door. "What do I care?"

"I'm not sure. Which makes your irritation all the more uncalled for."

"Uncalled for," he muttered to himself, dropping into his chair and rubbing his tired eyes. "Pfft."

"I'd love to continue to indulge your foul mood, but I'm here on business," Brennan said, settling into the chair across from him.

"Of course. Ya always are."

"I've never been here before."

He blinked.

"And why else would I come here? To socialize?"

"Why not? We obviously have nothing better to do."

"I assume that you're being sarcastic."

"Whatever gave ya that idea?"

"Hey, dude, just shut up and let her talk," Hodgins said in an amused tone, leaning back in his chair.

"What? Gotta have a body guard along to make sure ol' Tim ain't mean to ya?" White mocked, wanting a little entertainment in this boring place. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been able to just sit and watch TV.

"No," she said, eyes narrowing.

Ha, he thought triumphantly. Maybe he could push this one over the edge.

"I'm here to discuss my overtime—"

"Overtime? What, just working here ain't enough for ya? Ya gotta work _overtime?_"

"I'm a forensic anthropologist. My job requires—"

"Yeah, yeah. You're out saving the world from the plagues of evil. I get it."

Her eyebrows were knitting closer and closer together, her jaw clenching. Her eyes were turning to stone.

Man, this one was easily riled. She must be secretly just as pissy as he was.

"Dude, how the hell have you managed to stay employed for so long?" Hodgins asked.

"Dunno, dude," White replied. "Must be my House impression."

"Yeah, man. You are kind of House-ish."

"Thank ya, man. That's the best compliment I've ever received."

"You know what? I wouldn't be surprised if that were true."

White glanced at Brennan from the corner of his eye, who appeared to be staring at some far point over his shoulder as she carefully inhaled and exhaled.

"Listen, dude—" White started, putting a hand on his desk. "I—"

There was a flash of movement, and he only had enough time to register the sudden pain on his hand before it was gone again.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed, rubbing his hand and staring at Brennan, who was sitting smugly in her chair. "Did you just _pinch_ me?"

"Yes. I did."

Hodgins laughed outright at this.

"So the two of us can't just have a verbal spar? We gotta get physical?"

"I would prefer that we not."

Jesus. She didn't even say 'no.'

"Will you listen to me now?"

"Yeah, yeah." He sighed. This was no fun. After she left the next person to visit would likely be the guy who told him that his vacation days had officially clocked out and that his new time-card would start the next day. Or it would be Saroyan again demanding copies for every scrap of paperwork that had ever existed in the forensics department. Neither of them ever responded to any of his baits.

"It was come to my attention that my overtime is apparently causing some issues for..."

He stared at Hodgins, listening to but not really processing her words. He wondered what he was doing there. Maybe they were dating. I mean, he was, what, four inches shorter than her?

"This was not my intention, but I'm afraid..."

What would they look like if they went dancing? He'd have to lean on her chest. Maybe she was the one who would give him a spin. But he didn't seem very concerned about White's attention.

"And my work involves a lot of..."

Cocky bastard. This one had a temper, but he bet there were plenty of men that threw themselves at her. He must feel pretty damned assured of himself.

He suddenly realized that Brennan had stopped talking and Hodgins was stifling laughs behind his hands.

"What?" he asked.

"You weren't listening."

"Yes, I was. Something about budgets, and overtime, and working."

"Oh, she said more than that, dude," Hodgins said.

He studied her face more. Her eyes were tired, and the thin layer of make-up she wore did nothing to hide that fact. Thin lines accentuated her eyelids, giving the impression they were open far more often than they were closed.

White may be rude, but he wasn't an idiot. If she was annoyed anyway, her lack of sleep would likely make it very easy for her to explode. And, besides, the fun ran out if her anger was caused purely by his own maliciousness.

"Fine," he sighed and leaned forward. "The reason you can't work overtime willy-nilly is because we recently received a bit of a budget cut. You heard about the renovations over in the D building?"

A weary nod from Brennan.

"Those were for a new exhibit. As you may or may not know, we have the largest collection of Indian bones and artifacts in the country. The suits recently decided to take advantage. Ergo, money was needed. It was taken from our salaries."

"Typical," Hodgins muttered.

"Anyway, we could support half the staff on overtime because of our funds. But with the regular museum dipping into our pool, that surplus ain't available no more."

"Then why can't I just work for free?"

"Listen, sweetheart," he placed palms on the desk, still feeling a slight throb in one because of her handiwork. "I tell ya what ya can do. If ya don't work for pay, then simply don't say ya were working. The security cameras may pick ya up, but honestly, no one really cares around here. Even if there's an inquiry, I guarantee it'll never get past my office, which is where it would go first."

"Why? Because you're so nice?"

"No, tuts, 'cause I'd never get to it. And if ya were nice to me, I may forget it."

"You're suggesting I seduce you so that I can work overtime?" her eyebrows rose.

"That would be fun, but no."

She was still eying him.

"Forget it." He rose. "That it?"

"Sure." She got up.

Hodgins, having apparently decided the fun was over, left the office.

"Anything else?" White asked, wondering why she was still standing there. He walked to one of his ten thousand filing cabinets and opened a drawer.

"Just one thing," she said and there was another flash of movement before he felt his hand rammed to his back and up to his neck.

She leaned in close to his ear. "Don't call me 'tuts.' "

The pressure was gone and by the time he turned, the door to his office was already closed and she was gone.

He laughed to himself.

Perhaps there was some life in this office after all.

--

And...this concludes the Cam/Jeffersonian/Brennan story. If you liked any of it, leave a review on your way out!


	26. Dreams

And now for Brennan's history...

--

Dreams

--

She laid full out on her office couch, her back pressed to one of the arm rests while her feet—free of their shoes—pushed lightly against the other, her knees crooked up. In her hand she held a book, slightly tilted up to meet her eye level, one half folded over the other so that it was easier to grip. In her other she held a pen, the yellow notepad she was using to take notes propped against her knee. The lighting was low, her office door was shut, the blinds drawn. Only the scritching of the pen, the hum of her computer, and the soft notes of jazz oozing from her speakers disrupted the stillness, and she drank in the quiet with extreme contentment.

It was funny, really, she thought, flipping a page masterfully with only her index finger and thumb. In over a decade she hadn't changed much at all.

Twelve years ago she'd mostly just spent her time alone, a small stack of books perpetually wedged under one or both arms, a heavy satchel weighing down a shoulder or two. She had had absolutely no idea what she was doing, but she had, in some ways, enjoyed bumbling around, taking classes for the hell of it, saying things for the hell of it, arbitrarily making up rules or deadlines that she would drop at any, often convenient, time.

But she'd had no real dreams then. Her goals were temporary, often bordering on ephemeral, and she slipped by all attempts to nail her to subject, a discipline, a thought. She was strong in her convictions, prideful in her actions, and thorough in her work, but when people asked what plans she had later in life, she would shrug, smile almost a little patronizingly, and take her leave.

Her home, a hovel by any standards, occupied a far corner of the dorms, and there were times she would lie on the floor, her hair fanned out on the old wood, and stare at the ceiling, papers scattered around her, a book opened on her stomach. She would think to herself that one day, many years from now, she would live in a condo approximately twice this size, and she would drive an old Mazda, and rain would tap her windows as she grabbed her keys to head off to work in someplace, a basement probably, to tinker with chemicals, or papers, or old bones, or tiny pieces of metal. She would laugh cruelly to herself, amused not at all by the prospect, and then she would laugh again before rolling off the floor, leaving her things where they were, and flipping the book shut and off her stomach, before heading to her computer to write herself a short story, and delete it all, and head to bed with a sour grin upon her face.

Dreams are for idiots, she would assert loudly to her empty rooms. Life's not a frigging fairy tale.

And even now, Brennan thought to herself, closing her book on the newest experiments on Wolff's Law, which she would be required to know about by the next AAA meeting. Even now, after all these years, she had never changed her mind.

--


	27. I Can't

Written several months after "Dreams" but it follows chronologically, while differing in style.

--

I Can't

--

I can't.

I cannot.

That's impossible.

It was true. At one point in her life, Brennan had looked at things with that sort of attitude. Why? She didn't know; in fact, she was sure nobody knew why they thought this way.

She supposed it was the lingering effects of pessimism, though in reality she was still pessimistic, so that explanation left holes that the proverbial truck could drive through. Maybe it was simply her pride getting in the way of things. After all, perfectionists do not like being caught failing at anything. In fact, she had never willingly allowed anyone to witness her fail in anything. That was the sort of thing that only an empty apartment, a spare room, or a private place could witness. It kept her ego afloat and, when she entered academia, it prevented her from being blind-sided by the sort of ruthless competitive streaks her would-be or supposed colleagues displayed. Hell, she was so good at hiding her failures that she developed a blood-lust of her own, and her wins were _hers_ and nobody else could stake even the _slightest_ claim because she had worked damned _hard._

A wolfish grin would curl her lips as she sniffed out her enemy's failure to either cover his or her ass or to notice a crucial piece of information, and she would lean in ever so slightly, her eyes glittering, and go for the kill. She'd been killed enough times already. There was no room for excuses, and it gave her bitter heart pleasure to crush a bad argument or to win at a game of cut-throat logistics. Academics became her bloody battle ground, and anything even remotely along the lines of "I don't know" or "it's impossible" or "it can't be done" made her furious, as it made those of her level furious, and whatever idiot had suggested such a thing was sent whimpering to the corner while the demons of knowledge clashed brutally over subjects that, in reality, no one really understood.

And then years passed, and the fierce competition dulled. Those who had won and done the most and become fairly well-known among both their peers and the higher-ups quieted, their future internships at prestigious offices or companies assured, and it became okay once again to not know the answer, to require a bit of explanation, or to need additional time. And those who had once done anything to kiss a little ass relaxed and no longer felt the need to add yet another thing to an already bursting resumé. Dorms quieted, enemies became now legal drinking buddies, and past vicious arguments became sources of amusement.

Brennan, for her credit, gained a small circle of enemies-turned-friends, and her nights drinking beers and arguing were no longer opportunities to show anyone up, as she was safe in a promised internship with the forensic anthropologist attached to Northwestern. Her wolfish grin faded, though her desire to win remained securely intact, and she allowed people to speak—at least, once in a while.

And although she never really learned to openly admit she couldn't, she did manage to come up with her trademark "I don't know what that means."

A suitable compromise, if there ever was one.

--


	28. Expectations

--

Expectations

--

Brennan had known Michael Stires from previous encounters. He was, after all, one of her physical anthropology professors; the only difference was that he taught about once a year—always two classes, always during the fall—and spent the rest of the time part-timing in the local ME's office. He offered a position as his intern to her after class one day, and she took it a few weeks later, and thus began her interesting relationship with the professor, which lasted a total of almost five years.

The first half of her first year with Michael was spent battling school politics and former rivals, and she ended up teaching the class herself many times, as Michael wanted her to quote "have the experience." And although she had part-time taught before, she had no desire to do it again, and she became rather vicious at a few of the more irritating students, whom she now had some authority over due to her elevated status. Time dragged by, and everyone eventually came to fear the quiet padding of her shoes as she walked around the lab, and nobody dared fall asleep during her lectures. She became accustomed to it, almost entirely took over the class as her domain, with Michael only occasionally coming to help. In later years, she was the marked teacher, with Michael's name no longer even appearing on the class list, thus proving she grew to enjoy it somewhat over the four year span.

But then fall ended, as did winter, and they both moved to the ME's office, where her authority disappeared, and she was on the bottom of the food chain. Most everyone just ignored her, occasionally throwing her the literal bone—albeit rotted—for her to eyeball before passing it off to Michael, who would then, of course, ask her to clean it, which she would.

Three months after joining the office, there was a robbery—later pegged on one of the office's transitory trashmen—but at the time she was put through the grinder by the CME, and, caught between keeping her position and defending herself, she had said a few wrong words, been yelled at, and tossed out. Angry and muttering expletives under her breath, she had gone down to the clean-yet-slightly-smelly boiler room and punched the wall. Michael had oozed from the shadows, talked to her, and then suddenly it had been silent, save for the quiet chugging of water from somewhere to the back-left, and they had shared a kiss approximately five feet from a homicide victim and a yard from the present-but-unused model skeleton dubbed Jordan. He then offered to take her out to dinner to compensate for the rude behavior of his colleague, and she had agreed.

Of course, they never made it to the restaurant.

It was not Brennan's first experience with this sort of thing, she'd admit. There was her thesis supervisor in college. And there was that guest lecturer on anthropology who had come fresh from somewhere in Italy and was to leave the next day for South Africa, but stayed one extra day for her. The first had ended badly, the latter had most definitely not, and she figured that as a scientist, just because you tried once and failed doesn't mean you'll fail the next time.

And, besides, she was philosophically opposed to failing.

Her expectations, if any, were limited. Things seemed to become smoother in the office, and when they returned to Northwestern for the fall and winter, she was greeted with decidedly less hostility, but all of these things she simply put down the passage of time. Michael and her kept their personal relationship behind closed doors, and, for all intents and purposes, life went on—albeit a lot more pleasurably.

Years passed, and she was working virtually independently, her title as Michael's "intern" long since passed up in favor of the joking "doctor," even though she had yet to receive her slip of paper nor face the judging faces of the board that she later presented her dissertation to. Once she received her PhD, she continued the rest of the year at the ME's office before applying to a different office in another state and landing the job. At this time Michael and her were living together, returned to the same home every night, but otherwise were drifting apart—only the occasional dinner or holiday allowing them true personal time that was not spent, in some capacity, in the bedroom. When she was given the okay from the morgue, she broke the news to Michael over their last dinner, and she left him the next day in the Chicago Midway, with her few belongings trailing slowly behind.

The year she spent in the Maryland office was exceptionally quiet, and the one and only pass she had received from a pathologist working there she had ignored, and her bed, for the most part, was occupied merely by herself and her work files, a fact which she was surprisingly indifferent to. When the year passed, and another set of trees had begun shedding leaves like candy, she applied to the ABFA for certification, which was granted to her, and it was around this time that the much coveted position at the Jeffersonian Institution opened up. She landed an interview, got the job, and transferred from the Maryland office with a quiet good-bye.

Two years later, she had a grad student of her own, had formed the Jeffersonian's forensic unit, and was saddled with her oddest working partner to date, even though it seemed fairly apparent to the both of them that neither of them were going anywhere. And she was working on a skeleton one day, just like most normal workdays, and she was on-and-off listening to Angela and talking to Zack, although most of her attention was focused on the skull she clutched in both hands, when Hodgins walked in and handed her a small gift-wrapped box, containing an object she had recognized immediately.

And when she had walked out, he was standing there, sort of like old times, only this was her territory and she didn't know why he was there, but when they smiled at each it was most definitely like old times and they had met, as always, at a half-way point between themselves.

"I hope you don't have any expectations," she had said, her heartbeat kicking up a tempo.

"Do you?" he had replied.

"Civility," she had smiled.

"I can handle that."

Though, as it turned out, he couldn't really.

--

As I remember, this officially ends the story of how Brennan got to where she was academically. As a little advertisement, I covered the Christmas of '91 in _Perdition_, which you will find in my profile, complete. That's probably all of her earlier non-doctorate/pre-Jeffersonian history I will ever have, though I mention Michael a lot in other things.

And because I feel the story deserves advertisement--even if I'm not the author--for Brennan's foster care experience, check my favorites for _Growing Upside Down._ This is an excellent story, one of the best fics I've ever read, and my current favorite out of all fics, and although at the moment it is not complete, I still strongly suggest any who ever wanted to read about her experience (or simply read an extremely well-written, true-to-character story) do so. Again, I didn't write it and don't know the author personally, but it's simply so good that I'd like to mention it, especially while in the vein of Brennan's history.

Anyway, please review if you liked!


	29. Multitasking

--

Multitasking

--

It's always a fairly complex ballet, honed after years of practice. Timing is crucial. One step off and one either tumbles to the floor or is forced to catch oneself on the nearest solid object, which often enough is not worth grabbing because it's either too smooth or may end up releasing small objects to bounce off one's head. And besides, one would have to drop something in order to break the fall, and that would never do.

The first step is close the door with one's back and the back of the heel, preferably of the dominant foot, which will pull off its mate's shoe at the same time. Since the door is not yet closed, the foot with the loosened shoe must then be forced back and ram into the door whilst the foot itself leaves the shoe, which must, in turn, step hard onto the toe of the dominant foot. If placed correctly, the heel, stuffed under the door jam, will stick whilst the foot slips from its bonds.

At the same time, one must reach up to loosen the clasp for the necklace. Preferably, by the time the shoes are off, the catch has been lifted, or unscrewed, or hooked out or around, and the necklace will slither into one's hands. One step forward, and one is free from the confines of the shoes and the weight of the necklace.

It's important to swivel immediately, and bend whilst popping the earrings out with one hand as the other grabs both shoes by their flaps. Get up with one hand almost flatted on the floor, the earrings and necklace gripped between two fingers, and rise, making sure to take some weight of the knees so they don't pop. At the same time, one can shove back the shoulders and wriggle carefully out of one's jacket, juggling the shoes between both hands as the sleeves slip over arms. If feeling particularly ambitious, once it's off, let it slip and grab with one's teeth, tossing it up just enough to catch in the crook of the arm. If not, it can slide harmlessly onto a stool or couch as one heads for the bedroom.

Take advantage of the walk. Even holding the necklace, earrings, and shoes, one can still undo the buttons on a shirt or pants, or simply slip the former over the head just like the jacket, only it's going up not across. But don't leave a trail of clothes from here to the bedroom. One must catch each as it loosens and finally falls.

After that, dressing again in something much more comfortable is a simple matter. It's more fun, however, if one dresses whilst putting things away. Trade the watch for half a shirt, but when one puts the watch back one does it whilst slipping an arm through the empty sleeve, and when one's hand slides out, the watch will fall into its small space in the drawer, which can be banged shut with a hip whilst tying secure the ties for the pants. Jewelry should go back one at a time however. Getting them tangled is not the right way to go.

After all this is done, in literally only a few minutes, one can do as one pleases in considerably more comfortable clothing. Music can be flipped on with a finger whilst watching a sizzling pan, a knife gripped loosely in the free hand, the smell and feel of garlic heavy upon the air. Maybe sway to the jazz whilst transferring foodstuffs, or swipe a carrot from its pan on the way to the phone.

It was Brennan's dance, virtually every night, maybe minus the cooking. Her own personal art-form, a solo on a quiet stage, as she careened about her space on white-striped socks with well-remembered steps.

--

Ten points if you know exactly what she (I) is talking about because you've done it before.


	30. Words

--

Words

--

Words dash across the page, her fingers click, her eyes rove. A fan whirs somewhere in the background. She feels warm in her tank-top, but the feeling quickly passes as she remembers a new word, an old word, notes a mistake, takes it away. A new metaphor appears. She taps it down.

Her mouth hangs slightly open, her eyebrows crimped, her breath coming in little puffs from her nostrils. Her entire universe has been narrowed to a few thousand pixels and little black blurs that she barely has time to read before the next line starts, and a new paragraph begins, and her obedient little troops are once again reading her mind.

A pause as she turns to shuffle though papers, autopsy diagrams and word webs connected by scrawls of notes, lines, quotations, and highlights. Her finger presses to her quarry and she mutters the lines as they appear on her page, her keys keeping time with her thoughts. She laughs softly to herself as something new appears, unannounced, among her dialogue, and she moves with it, curving gently away from the ending she had originally imagined.

Pictures bloom behind her eyes, and her parted lips stretch to a sly grin as she rapidly notes it down, switches pages, and her scene changes. A paper slips from the laptop and she nabs it without breaking eye-contact with her words, her thoughts, her silent music, one hand still typing gamely until it is rejoined with its mate. She mumbles something to herself, then curses and stabs the backspace, her fingers arched impatiently over the keys, her lips curled into a sneer. It would never do.

Back. Back. Back. Blocks erase themselves from existence, and Brennan starts again with the line, the word that had started it all, and continues the flow of ideas that, although halted, had never been broken.

--


	31. Can You Hear Me?

--

Can You Hear Me?

--

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Bones?"

Pause.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Bones? Bones, I know you're in there."

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Bones!"

Bang!

The door shuddered in its frame.

Brennan checked her watch, careful to keep her coffee-hand steady as she swiveled her wrist, which was planted firmly onto her table as she watched the door with bemusement.

Silence.

"Bones?"

She snickered softly. Petty, yes. Mean, yes. But it was also entertaining. His pitch was increasing, his agitation becoming more and more apparent each time his name for her passed through his lips.

"Bones. Come on. Please."

Pleading tone.

A very small part of her, an area somewhere deep in her gut, was stirred by the begging note in his voice. The rest of her was still feeling rather warm.

"Bones? Can you even hear me?"

Yes. And she was going to continue to hear but not act upon his words for a while longer.

"Bones?"

Nope.

"Bones?"

I'm not here. That is my door you're talking to.

"Please? I'm sorry, alright?"

Sure you are.

"I'll never do it again."

Right.

"You are listening, aren't you, Bones?"

Not really.

"Come on. This isn't fair."

At least I'm not yelling at you.

"This is downright petty, Bones. I thought you didn't do petty."

Ooh. You've got me there. Stop before I burst into tears right here on the other side of the door.

"I know you're listening."

Can't hear you.

"Come on. Fine. What if I take you to lunch?"

Uh huh. Bribe me. Excellent. Then you can do it all over again.

"It was a joke!"

I'm aware.

"Please."

The banging had been reduced down to a pitiful tap.

Man, he lays it on thick, doesn't he?

She placed her coffee down and rubbed her chin.

What the hell is 'it' anyway?

"Bones?"

She sighed.

Fine.

Shaking her head, she dumped the remains of her coffee down the drain and slung her purse over her shoulder before pausing and grabbing something from the fridge.

"Bones?"

Tap. Tap. Ta—

She opened the door, and his mouth, to her satisfaction, was frozen in an 'O.'

Quickly, she stuffed the thing she was holding into his mouth.

"Swallow it," she commanded. "And the next time you force me to taste your pie I'll make sure it's a larger chunk of tofu."

He did as he was told, his eyes round with shock.

"Now," she smiled evilly. "You'll be good on your bargain and take me to lunch." She walked away from him, her heels clicking in her wake. "Tip included."

It was a moment before she heard the pounding of his feet against the floor as he jogged to catch up with her, and when she glanced at him he was still looking at her in shock.

"What?" she said. "Were you under the impression that I was above retaliation?"

He opened his mouth, closed it. His eyebrows crinkled together.

"Serves you right."

He stared at her and shook his head as she stopped and stabbed the button for the elevator.

"You are a surprising woman," he said as the doors pinged open.

"I work at it," she replied, and stepped inside.

--


	32. Rated

--

Rated

--

_7.5_

He sighed and took off his hat, hanging it over a metal bar.

_It's a fact. On a scale of one to ten, he's ten to the tenth power._

Yeah. Right.

_What am I?_

_You're a solid 7.5, which is quite respectable._

7.5. Pfft. Me.

7.5

His leg started to jiggle.

I am so not a 7.5.

His eyes fell onto his desk, where the faded out picture of Angela's "husband" lay quietly.

Mocking him.

He glared at it.

You think you're so hot behind your lens and on your beach. With your shanty. Which you built with your giant, toned muscles.

7.5

Dammit.

His leg's tempo on the floor was increasing.

Where the hell is Angela?

He glanced around at the sound of clicking, but the only person he saw was Cam, who had pretty much abandoned her costume and covered up with a long coat. She was walking the long way, for his office was on the opposite side of the lab from hers, or, maybe, she was returning from a coffee break.

He glanced at her hand to note a yellow mug.

7.5

Dear god.

"Dr. Saroyan!" he called before he could stop himself.

She stopped and looked at him, an eyebrow arching.

"Yes, Dr. Hodgins?" she asked.

He got up and walked to her.

"If you were to, you know, give me a rating..."

"A rating?"

"You know. One to ten, how hot are you. That sort of thing."

She nodded. "Continue."

"What would you rate me as?"

She paused, and he felt very warm under his coat as her eyes raked over his body. Her lips parted.

"Well?" he asked, a fluttering feeling in his gut.

She exhaled. "7.5."

His mouth fell open.

"Is that all, Dr. Hodgins?"

He nodded weakly.

Shrugging, she walked away, leaving him stunned in the doorway to his office.

7.5

Damn these women and their telepathy.

--


	33. Tears

--

Tears

--

Drops rained down with rhythmic precision, sliding slowly, yet certainly, down smooth walls and distorting the images pictured underneath. Their colors had waned, their edges made soft. Some had already gone, replaced by steaks of red and yellow. Others still held tenaciously, their smoky lines confident and strong in the face of the continues stream of water.

Her hand pressed lightly upon the smooth stone, her eyes caught by the sad remnants of once beautiful art. Legs of horses and antelope wept, the eyes of bison shed bitter tears. After untold years of fighting, their battles were finally losing, and their allies, broke and manipulated by greedy contractors, had been beaten back. They had only to stand against time, the last vestiges of the great French painters of prehistory.

Angela sighed and stood back, a pencil, worn on one side, gripped between two fingers and a sketchpad. She leaned lightly against a bare wall and ducked under a protective alcove, raising her pad and her eyes to copy the delicate forms and to keep them preserved, at least, in memory as the cave around her released sad tears upon the walls, her papers, and her skin.

--

As I recall,

At the time of my writing this

I had just finished a Billy Collins poem,

Or perhaps a whole books of his poems.

It is more likely, of course,

That I am merely projecting,

As I am reading Billy Collins right now--

Or, rather, a book of his poems.

Which is why I'm writing like this,

Because I guess that's just what tends to happen

When you read poetry at one thirty in the morning

While listening to animals in the background,

And fans in the foreground

And you think you need an excuse

For poor quality or

otherwise unintelligeable writing.


	34. Solitude

--

Solitude

--

The silence is not so bad, really. After a long day of academics, paperwork, and uncomfortable phone calls, sometimes the only thing you really want to do is kick back and do absolutely nothing.

Hell, the couch is comfortable, the carpet is soft, and there's no obligation to look good for anyone. No jacket, no constricting shirt. Can cook in your underwear if you want. And just because there's no one to share the steak doesn't mean it doesn't taste just as good.

And besides, no one's there to tell you exactly which bone you're chewing on, or inform you of the fat content. No helpful warnings about clogged arteries and heart disease. Nothing about the fate of the world. Your bio-footprint is a moot point because nobody's there to care but you.

A thread is loose on the couch, and he picks at it idly.

Women always hate that. Can't figure out why. Just a loose thread. No reason to rip it out just because it's bothering you.

He gets up and heads to his counter, where he pulls out a drawer and grabs a roll of duct tape. Ripping off a piece, he places it over the threadbare area and plops back onto the couch, his legs up on the arm. His old record player is playing some old rock song over and over, but he's not really listening to it, doesn't really hear it. He runs his hand along the creases of the couch until he finds his remote and flips on the TV.

Hockey. Perfect.

Women don't really like this stuff either. They'd watch for a while, but then they'd start asking questions. Why is that guy doing that? What possible reason does he have for doing something so dammed stupid? Why am I even here to watch you eat chips and watch television. Aren't we going to do something meaningful? Seeley, you _ate_ all of my pringles!

Well, too bad imaginary woman I've constructed from bits and pieces of old memories, you're not here and I have the pringle can.

He grabs for it but there's no comforting clattering nor any heft as he picks it up. He rips off the lid and looks inside. Empty.

Damn you, imaginary woman. You win this time.

He gets up and shuffles to his cabinet, where he finds one other half-empty can of pringles. Sour cream and onion. The good stuff.

He returns to his television, taking a beer from the fridge in the process.

Yep. He plops down onto his couch. This is most certainly the way to relax. Beer, chips, some idiot yelling about penalties on his surround sound. He shouts back at the television as the announcer attacks his team. No way did they screw up.

There's a slight tapping in the background, but he ignores it, cranks up the TV. Damn his neighbors. They don't even have a single adjoining wall, and yet he can still hear the bass behind their music at three in the morning. One day he would take his gun and...

Bang! Bang! Bang!

He pauses.

Wait. That's my door.

Sighing, he grabs his shirt and slips it on before walking to it. What? Somebody order me a free pizza?

"Bones," he says in surprise when he opens it. She's standing there on the steps, her necklace and earrings from before abandoned, but everything else—save the lab coat—still there, albeit rumpled.

"Yes," she says. She looks exceptionally uncomfortable, like someone who has just walked in on two people in a lip-lock.

"Is there something you need?" he prompts.

"No, but..." her voice trails off.

"Come in," he says and backs up, and she steps inside, her eyes passing quietly over the crap scattered all over everywhere. "Sorry about the mess."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just popped in like this." She shakes her head. She looks as if she's about to bolt.

"No. It's fine. What is it?"

"Well, Angela has been pushing me to be more impulsive, and I was home alone and I realized I didn't really want to be, and I thought maybe you'd be home alone as well and would like some company. Even if," she exhaled. "it's just me."

"Hey, just you nothing." It was amazing. For a woman so self-assured in her work, she was one of the most insecure persons he'd ever met. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

"I'm not being intrusive?"

"Nope." He walks to the kitchen. "Want a beer?"

"Sure."

He grabs one for her and walks back around to his living area, where she has perched on his sofa. She is staring at the duct tape over the threadbare area, picking at it. She stops when she makes eye-contact with him, her fingers suddenly freezing in the process of liberating the tape entirely from the couch.

"Sorry," she says.

He snorts and slips into the seat beside her, handing her a beer.

"Thanks."

He nods.

Her attention turns to the television, which is currently blasting the cheers from a large, primarily male, audience who are probably mostly, if not entirely, sloshed. He quickly turns down the volume.

"Booth," she says.

Oh god. Here it comes.

"We are..."

Here we go.

"Pringles are gone."

He blinks. Stares at her.

She waggles the empty can in front of him.

"I suppose I should be thankful since these are extremely unhealthy, but I admit that I have been hit with a craving."

The sour cream and onion. She had finished it in the 2.5 seconds he had been in the kitchen.

He stares at her, slack-jawed.

"Sorry," she says.

He leans back, nodding.

"And Booth?" she says next.

"Yes, Bones?"

"Why do you have duct tape on your couch?"

He exhales. Closes his eyes.

Yes. There is indeed something to be said for solitude.

In fact, he was missing it already.

--


	35. Fairy Tale

Par for the course with me, but I couldn't stay funny too long. We'll be back eventually...Maybe next. I haven't checked the order recently.

:)

--

Fairy Tale

--

Whatever it was—this thing they call a fairy tale—it had never been a thing they had striven for.

He was pretty sure it had something to do with a huge house and a larger yard and a beautiful pool, and a small white dog who neither shed nor barked. And there were supposed to be friends with perfect teeth who held their cocktails between two fingers and laughed at politically-correct jokes as if they really meant it, while standing in a perfectly manicured lawn with perfect pink flamingos that nobody really liked but complimented anyway. And then kids would whiz around the guests, and everyone would yell, only they wouldn't yell in any seriousness because they were kids and everyone loved them and what the hell because they were all a little sloshed. Only, just sloshed enough, since there were perfect escorts to drive their ladies home with perfect smiles so they could go home and have a perfect night.

But his house was small, by most people's standards. And the yard was not massive, and the pool it contained was a blow-up, and the only person who really used to use it was his wife, but that was just to cool her feet as she trimmed dying flower beds and overgrown bushes. And the dog was neither small nor white. In fact, he was gray, but he was usually black as he enjoyed rolling in the nearest mudpit. And the friends were few, and none of them had perfect teeth, and when they made jokes they were met with criticism and booming laughs, laughs so hard they shook in everyone's chests even though no one thought it was funny, they had just consumed too many beers.

And the kids were neither perfect nor loved by all. Wars were fought in hallways, bombs dropped over kitchen tables. "Just like you, Max," Ruth would mutter as doors slammed or heated words were exchanged on the other side of thin walls. "She's just like you."

"Yeah," he'd say. "She's just like me."

And it didn't end like any fairy tale either. His life, though not characterized by perfect people and perfect houses and perfect dogs, was gone rather suddenly at a gas station ten miles from home. And his wife, two years later, was gone and buried beside people he had never known, in a cemetery he had never heard of, in a state he never visited. And this thing they called a fairy tale mocked him in his mind, for this was no fairy tale, it was just his reality, almost twenty years too late, and it was merely memory's matter that even suggested that there had been a time when he had once believed in this idea, this fantasy, that was to be considered a fairy tale and nothing more.

--


	36. Vacation

--

Vacation

--

_You know, vacation. It's from the Latin, _vacatio_. It means, you know, 'freedom' or 'release.' You might want to consider that next time._

Brennan leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Her wrist throbbed at her side, and she picked at its bindings idly. Her cell smelled like vomit and she could not bring herself to attempt to sleep on the pathetic excuse for a mattress, for it was obviously intended to make sure those in holding didn't sleep at all.

_This is the opposite of vacation. I mean, no wonder you snapped, went insane, and totally lost your mind._

I didn't snap, did I?

She looked around. The bars cast shadows across her body, light stripes across her skin. The nearest light was a small desk lap in an office, on the other side of one of those foggy glass doors. The cell was probably about the size of the office, maybe a little smaller, but, thankfully, she was alone inside of it.

Images of Graham floated across her eyes when she closed them. His blood dripping down the walls, his red face, his white eyes staring blankly with the loss of their skin for protection. His blood on her; her blood on him.

I didn't do that. I am a lot of things, but a murderer I am not.

Right?

She opened her eyes and rolled off the bed. She stood there, inhaling vomit and stale alcohol. She didn't know why she had stood. Exhaling, she paced around. Like a caged tiger.

_This is the opposite of vacation._

But it's _my_ vacation.

_No wonder you snapped, went insane, and totally lost your mind._

She didn't have a rebuttal.

Blood was in the air, heavy and metallic. Her hands, her clothing. She hadn't done that. But then...How had it gotten there?

She could smell it, feel it. Memories mixed with doubt. She had no memories. She couldn't say for one thing or another.

Had she murdered Graham Leger? She didn't know.

_Means 'freedom' or 'release.'_

Release of what? My inner rage?

Hate psychology.

Facts go either way. There really isn't an explanation.

Yes, there is. I left on vacation, snapped, went insane, and murdered a colleague. Then I skinned him and disposed of the epidermis in little jars around the body while drawing symbols on the wall in his blood.

Perfectly reasonable explanation.

_Let's just be wildly emotional and assume you didn't psychotically murder a co-worker who invited you over for dinner._

I think, Booth, I've had enough of the wildly emotional on this vacation.

_This is the opposite of vacation_.

Quiet. God knows I came here at least in part to escape comments like that.

She dropped heavily onto the mattress, hearing it creak in protest. She closed her eyes again.

_But when you're alone, the world is full of possibilities._

She exhaled.

Possibilities, hm?

I'll keep that in mind for next time.

Assuming I ever leave this place.

Sighing, she shifted, knocked her head against the corner of the wall, and fell asleep.

--

If you didn't get that, that was in between scenes in Morgue.


	37. Creation

--

Creation

--

It's all about proportion. If one thing is off, the entire thing is, and there's no remedy but to obliterate the whole thing and start over. Nobody likes a shitty repair job.

The skull is the first part. The most important part. If that thing is right, then the face is sure to be correct, but one has to draw the skull first. Delicate outlines. Just because you screw up thirty times in the process does not mean you can get irritated and start pressing down more, because if you do then under the face the skull will grin at you. Mocking you for screwing up.

But if drawn correctly, the skull is invaluable. Draw a straight line from the middle of zygomatic toward the skull cap and viola! You are at almost dead center with the ear. In fact, that little flap on the ear lines up with it perfectly. You need more? Straight line from the orbits generally gives you the upper boundary of the ear; the bottom of the zygomatic lines up, more or less, with the lowest lines of the ear. And, luckily, one really only has to trace over the jaw to make a jaw, because there isn't any weird muscle stuff that screws up the lines. Viewed anterior or posterior, there's the issue of connecting the cheekbone to the jaw, and that's more a gut thing than anything. The nose is a simple matter of arching correctly once the nasal bones have run their course.

Lips are a pain in the ass. There's no convenient bone there to trace, and they just sort of float there. True, the top of upper lip and the bottom of the lower lip line up with about the middle of the teeth, and in sealed lips they come together at right about the gap between both pairs of incisors, but their shape is difficult to master. And although, yes, they do end right at about the premolars or first molars, they also have lines which arch from about there to the nostril. But if you draw it too deep, you've aged this person about thirty years. Too light, and the face looks blank. That's the nice thing about doing an anterior or posterior view—there's not so much blank room on the face to deal with.

And then, of course, there are the eyes.

You can't depend on the orbital bones, so just throw out that thought right there. There are muscles all over that area. The eyes sort of float inside the orbits, around rings and rings of muscles. The more tired a person is, the more you see those muscles. If you stare at a person, a thin person, long enough, you can start to see the fleshy areas between eye and the zygomatic. But doing that all the time is fairly disconcerting, so don't do it. All you need is to see skulls everywhere you go instead of faces.

At any rate, from a side view, eyes are like cones. Lashes sort of flair up from the ends of the cone, but you're more likely to notice the thin gab between the top of the orbits and the eye, where the eyelid sits, rather than the lashes themselves because generally this area is heavily shaded—either because the subject is female and wearing eye make-up or because there's heavy shadowing in the area.

Or, you know, you're drawing Johnny Depp.

Moving on.

Ears, even with the helpful bone markers, can be a pain. They oftentimes look too large when you've been staring at them too long—sort of like the skull cap—and there's often an impulse to reduce the size, but that's not smart. The bottom of the ear is about where the jaw ends, and right around the top is where the hairline loops. Mess that up, and the whole face looks wonky. Wonky faces make irritated investigators. Or they garner a raised eyebrow from Brennan. Trust me, it's not worth either of those things. And then there's the matter of the weird crinkly thing they have going on. And when you don't have the advantage of taking artistic liberties—like heavy shading—you've got to be careful.

Hair is another pain. Eyebrows are actually usually erased somewhat to give them a more faded look, or they're drawn so that they looked slightly fuzzy and thin. In theory, it's an easy thing; in practice, when eyebrows are weird, everything is weird. And eyebrows are easy to mess up because their borders are ambiguous. True, you can line the ends up to the end of the eye—a little past that, really—and they end right around that arc for the nose; but getting that "eyebrow" look can be difficult. If you're sloppy, they look like fuzzy caterpillars. Fuzzy caterpillars hanging over people's eyes is never a good thing. Don't let those weird impressionist people fool you. Even if I was the one who told you to do it in the first place.

Anyway, the hair. The real hair. The hair on the head. The one we have to pull into pony tails. Getting that thing shaded correctly without wearing down a pencil is a job only for the masters. Hair's tricky. It flows all over the place, and with free lines, it's easy, but with the constrained lines of a sketch artist, you gotta be more careful than simply scribbling. How do I do my hair? Trade secret. And no, I don't always leave it unshaded for convenience. Sometimes I do not have time.

Shut up.

The neck is the next thing, although, honestly, it's easy. Lightly draw in where the vertebrae belong, mentally cover 'em with muscles, and you've got the back of the neck, which rounds out very very nicely with the back of the skull. There's also an important muscle here, the sterno cleido-mastoid, which shoots from the mastoid—that little bump right after the mandible—to the ends of the collarbone. A lot of the times, in women especially, and even more so when they're stressed, this thing sticks out like a rope, so make sure to draw it. Under that is the delicate lines of the throat and its tubing—though in guys this place tends to bulge a little. Save the delicacy for the females. Males tend to be a lot more harsh with their lines.

After all that, the lines of the shoulders are a snap, and clothing can be lightly indicated. Shade. Shade well. Cover up all your mistakes. When you're a master like me, there won't be any, but if you're not then there are bound to be five to thirty of them.

Done? Good. Now draw it again—

"Angela?"

The artist looks up.

"What are you doing?"

"Angela's teaching me to draw a face!" Parker exclaims, the back of both his hands gray with graphite. Papers are scattered about him, piled up high in crinkled bundles, and the trash can sits nearby, empty.

"Oh, that's nice, bub, that's real nice," Booth says. He's grimacing. "Come with daddy. We'll clean you up."

"Okay! Thanks, Ange!"

The agent, tossing a glare Angela's way, leads his son out.

"What motivated you to do something like that, Angela?" Brennan asks, her back to the door-frame.

"The mother in me, Bren," she replies, rising and slapping her hands together lightly.

She cocks her head, "Sure it wasn't just the need to feel superior?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Since when do you believe in psychology, honey?"

"Since when do you feel like explaining the subtle nuances of art to someone who can barely draw stick figures?"

"Touché."

"I thought so."

--


	38. Under the Rain

--

Under the Rain

--

Water poured down, slid off buildings, gathered on floors, sloshed onto shoes, and ran down skin and clothing. The night was cold, and the rain was icy, and the wind whipped her clothing as she looked up to the sky, exhaled with a great cloud of gray, and closed her eyes.

Wind boomed against buildings and small plants with a hollow roar. There was no thunder, nor any lightning—at least not yet—but the rain made up for it in its violence. It came down hard and fast, thick. Lights below and around blurred to them, and they flickered in and out of focus, shimmering as water ran down their frames and poured in sheets in front of their beams.

"Bones!" a voice bellowed over the rain, and the wind boomed again in response. She smiled, feeling surprisingly warm under both of her coats and her sweater. "Bones!"

She turned, her hands, almost numb, curled around the railing. "Hey," she said. Her voice was level, and she wondered vaguely if her partner had heard her or if the wind had taken her words and carried them far away from the Jeffersonian's roof.

He moved closer to her, and he was tucked very far into his coat, his hands buried in the folds of the fabric. Light back-lit him, and only one side of his face was even reasonably well lit. A folded umbrella waved about at his side, for it was useless at this juncture, and she smiled in a way that must have looked slightly nutty to him, for he moved even closer until they were both at the railing.

"What are you doing out here?" he said, his voice loud, but not quite a shout.

She shrugged, "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"No. No, it doesn't."

"Haven't you ever just stood and watched the rain, Booth?"

"Yeah, maybe from inside a building or something."

"That doesn't count," she scoffed, but she doubted he heard her. "It feels wonderful."

"You feeling okay?" he eyed her with concern and she crinkled her eyebrows.

"Oh, right, there's that opinion that people who stand out in the middle of the rain are depressed or something to that effect."

"And are you?"

"No." She shook her head. "In fact, I'm a little exhilarated."

A hand slipped from his coat and he pressed it to her forehead.

"No fever," he said.

"I'm not sick!" she protested.

"Jeez, Bones," he said and ignored her, touching her hand. "You're freezing. Come inside already."

"The rest of my body feels quite warm," she said.

In response, he touched her forehead again.

She removed his hand. "I'm fine."

He eyed her. "Then why are you standing out here like a woman possessed?"

She shrugged, "It was hot inside."

"Bones, it's forty degrees outside, and in there it's only about sixty or seventy."

She lifted her shoulders again, feeling water stream down the creases of her clothing.

"Hormonal?"

She scoffed.

"PMSing?"

Her eyebrows knit together.

"What, do you have a space heater stored under that coat?"

"No," she shook her head. "But I am wearing layers."

"Well, I'm freezing, Bones."

"Then go inside."

"I'm larger than you. I should be warmer."

"Well, perhaps you're not wearing as many well-fitted articles of clothing on your person."

"I could be wearing a thousand and still not be warm in this weather."

"Then you would look like a blimp and would have a lot of trouble getting around," she grinned wolfishly at him, knowing he would be irritated by her literal answer.

He exhaled in a cloud of silver.

"Come on, Booth," she said and yanked the cloth covering his arms—for she couldn't find his hands—over to the railing. "Watch the rain with me."

"We're doing more than watching, Bones."

"Fine. Take a shower with me in the rain."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "Fine. But only for a little while."

"Fair enough."

"And then we go back inside."

"Alright."

Shaking his head, he leaned against the railing as the first crack of thunder lit the sky.

--


	39. Heal

Alrighty, folks, for no reason whatsoever, I'm posting one of my last Themes. By the time I wrote this, I was so tapped out on ideas that I defaulted to Brennan POV until the end, and then just randomly started with one word or phrase, and went from there.

The logic behind posting this so impulsively is that I don't want to suddenly realize all the Themes left at some point are Brennan sandwiched between Brennan surrounded on either side by Brennan, so I'm just gonna possibly mix up some of my chronology.

Not that, you know, any of you care or even have a reason to know I'm doing this, but I just felt—in my hazy, tired, I-don't-want-to-write-anything-for-any-of-my-four-fics-mind—that it mattered. Even if it doesn't.

Okay. I'm shutting up now.

--

Heal

--

The lab is unnaturally silent, more so than any grave. There are no lab coats floating around, no clumps of scientists discussing things as they walk down narrow pathways between other employees and work stations. Even the guards are gone, on extended leave because there is nothing to protect as no one is coming in or out. Most work stations are dark, offices black holes into which the building recedes. Only the main lights are on, giving light to the platform and the hallways, and pale light streams from her office, but she does not see it as she paces the darkened alleyways of her colleagues.

She has never felt so alone in this place, and every time she passes the opening to limbo she feels a deterrent, as if she would find that if she walked closer she would be shocked by an electrical current. The alarms had stopped long ago, and she can still feel the claustrophobia of being trapped on the other side of a sealed door as they rang in her ears, her skeleton less than a yard away in the small room. It had taken so long for her to be released from her confinement, for the late hour had meant the only population present were the guards, and they had not been aware of the back corner of limbo until they had checked with the security system. The door had been opened remotely from there, and by the time she had reached the main lab not a soul was there to greet her, and it was another twenty minutes before the head of security appeared at the sliding doors of the entrance to tell her of the biohazard that had been released into the air by her work. She had been told medication was en route and in the meantime they'd send someone to draw her blood and that he was sorry. Then he had walked away and she had been left to stare at the the space he had occupied before heading to her office, where she changed into her spare clothing and ran her hands idly through her hair—still damp from the shower she had taken. She had found she could not rest, and she could not work, so she had begun pacing. Pacing endlessly around the thruways she walks every day.

Eventually a man kitted out in a HAZMAT suit had appeared, and he had taken some of her blood through his rubber gloves before disappearing beyond the glass doors, and when he was gone she was alone again.

That was an hour ago. Now she is tired and she wonders if she'll be seeing the inside of her apartment within the next few days, or if it would be a hospital room instead. It's easier when you've been shot, she thinks, falling hard against the wall as if she has been shoved there. Then at least there's no waiting. Usually.

It's so quiet that it disturbs her, and the longer she stands there the more than feeling grows, and eventually she gets off the wall to pace some more. She's tired, but the thought of sleep doesn't appeal to her. She doesn't think she could if she tried anyway.

She walks to the entrance, right near the bone room, and just stands there. She doesn't know why she is here, though likely it's just her subconscious expressing its desire to leave the lab for safer territories. She pauses here, unsure of why she has fallen back on a psychological explanation, but she's too tired to sift through the reasons, and then she finds herself with back to the wall again, and she slides down until she reaches the floor, where she stretches out to wait. Who knows when the injection will arrive, and she isn't looking forward to it, but for once in her life she doesn't feel like working, doesn't want to work, she just wants to be home, and this is as close as she is going to get.

Her lab coat is warm and the lab is cold, and she tucks herself further inside of it, closing her eyes. She is so tired. Maybe she will sleep after all.

The lab lights flick off, their motion sensors apparently having decided there is no one here to safeguard against the darkness. When she flicks open her eyes, the only light comes from the entrance, and she knocks her head back against the wall but doesn't really care. She wonders if apathy is a symptom of fungal disease, but she finds she doesn't care about that either. The irony makes her crack a smile, but it quickly fades away. She cocks her leg and leans on it with an arm, and then she closes her eyes again.

Her next disturbance is a sound rather than a sight, and when she hears it she automatically shifts up to cover her ears with her coat, scrunching her eyebrows in an effort to block it out. It takes her mind a long moment to recall her situation, and the delusion that she is home passes, and when she opens her eyes it is the same as before—for the only light is that from the entrance—and it takes her a beat to notice the person walking toward her and the glass doors, and she smiles a little and shakes her head.

"Booth," she says, forgetting he cannot hear her, "Always taking care of me."

He kneels by the door, and he is smiling too but his eyes are concerned as hell, and he cannot mask his worry as well as he thinks he can. He slips something small and silver from his pocket, and it shines in the light as he waggles it. Its identity doesn't register to her until he punches in a number and the inside pocket of her lab coat begins vibrating, and then she pulls out the phone and answers it.

"Hey," is her soft greeting, and he replicates it in turn.

"You know, Bones," he says, grinning just a little, "if you wanted to spend more time with me you didn't have to go and do something this drastic."

She rolls her eyes, "Don't be so self-important, Booth," she murmurs.

He snorts, and then his smile fades as he regards her, "How are you?"

"Tired."

"Do you, you know, _feel..._"

"I'm fine."

"Ugh," he exhales and slides down the floor until he is sitting beside her on the other side of the glass doors. "You know I hate when you say that."

"It's the truth."

"Bones, being quarantined doesn't exactly scream that you are 'fine.' "

"It's only been a few hours."

He shakes his head, "Quarantine is quarantine. What the hell does it matter how long it's been?"

"There's no need to raise your voice to me," her voice is still very soft, and she doesn't like his ascent in tone.

"I'm sorry," he's much quieter now, and his eyes lose the fear they have flashed, "Just worried about you."

"You're always worried about me."

"Well, how couldn't I? It's like a requirement for being partnered with you."

"I'm sorry," she replies automatically.

"Don't have to apologize."

"Okay. Then I'm not sorry."

He sighs, but he's smiling again, so she smiles.

"Your security officer—Hal something—he wanted me to tell you that it won't be too much longer."

"Alright," she says, and she swallows and closes her eyes.

"Bones?" Booth's voice is loud in her ear again, "Bones. I need you to stay with me."

She slits her eyes to regard him, "Where am I going?"

"I don't know."

She exhales and shakes her head, "No need to get so worked up, Booth, I've just been up all night. I'm tired."

"Since when does that faze you?"

"Usually I have something to distract me from the exhaustion. Once I don't have it I usually fall asleep. You know that."

"So, what? I'm putting you to sleep?"

"No. But you're not keeping me awake either."

He snorts, "Thanks a lot."

"I've never had a good bedside manner," she shifts, "You know that too."

"Yeah. I do."

"You can stop talking to me as if I'm dying, Booth. I'm fine."

His lips purse, "I'm not talking to you as if you're dying."

She scoffs, "Then why aren't you calling me an idiot and saying I should be more careful?"

"Fine. You're an idiot and you need to be more careful."

"I was following protocol."

"Why are you getting defensive? You told me to say that."

"No I didn't. I just asked you why you weren't saying those things to me."

"I don't know, Bones," he runs a hand through his hair, "Maybe it's because it's four a.m. and I was woken up by a security guy from the Jeffersonian who tells me that I'm on your list of emergency contacts and that there's been an accident." His eyes are on her now, studying her as if to make certain that she is there.

Her mouth is suddenly dry, "I'm sorry," she says again.

"No, it's fine. I'm just glad..." his voice trails off. "Just glad to see you're okay."

"I am okay," she says, more loudly than she has been talking, more assuredly, "And I will be."

"I thought you didn't like to jump to conclusions," he teases softly.

"In this case, I prefer to think of it as optimism," she matches his tone and then grunts as she feels a pull from her back.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she shifts, "The wall just isn't doing my back any favors."

"Why are you sitting out here anyway?" he glances past her, "Why are all the lights off?"

She uses the arm on her leg to gesture behind her, "They're motion sensitive." Her hand slaps back onto her knee. "And I don't know why I decided to sit here."

"Waiting for me?"

"I thought I told you not to be so self-important."

"I was kidding."

"I know, and so was I."

He smiles at her again before adjusting his back against the wall. Both the fabrics of their coats are pressing against the glass.

"How long you think you're going to be stuck in there?" he asks next.

She shrugs, "Depends on whether or not I was infected."

"Thought you weren't concerned."

"Of course I am, but ultimately there's nothing I can do, so I'd prefer not to be considering my own mortality."

"It's fatal?" his eyes jump to hers again.

She shrugs again, "It can be."

"That's great, Bones, thanks for telling me."

"Please don't yell at me."

"I'm not yelling at you."

"Well, it sounds like you are."

"I'm just a little frustrated," he lowers his voice again. "You would be too."

She pauses and closes her eyes.

"Wouldn't you?"

"Yes," she replies and clears her throat, opening her eyes, "I would."

"So how'd this happen anyway? I thought you were always so careful."

"I was careful."

He scoffs, "Apparently not."

"All this," she gestures behind her again, "It's not my fault."

"Now who's yelling?"

She lowers her tone, "It was because I was trapped in that room with the pathogen for so long. The spores may have potentially collected all over my clothing and hair and skin. Even showering after such an extended exposure may not have helped."

"But you're fine?"

"Yes," she nods, "I am fine."

"How will I know if you're not fine?"

She shrugs, "Symptoms can present in a multitude of ways."

"Do I want to know?"

"Probably not."

"I really don't like the sound of that, Bones."

"_I_ don't like the sound of it, Booth."

"I like it less than you."

"I'm the one who would be presenting them." She pokes her finger to the glass that separates them. It's cold. "Obviously, out of the two of us, I would be the one to fear my symptoms more."

"You know what? I don't like the road this conversation is taking us down."

"So what do you suggest?"

"Make a right turn at Albuquerque and get the hell out of dodge."

"I cannot even begin to unravel what that means."

He smiles, "It wouldn't be worth it anyway."

"Then why speak in such cryptic metaphors?"

"Ah, Bones, these are idioms not metaphors."

"They speak to the same principle."

"You just don't like to be wrong."

"Can't we simply concede that that was both an idiom and a metaphor?"

"Sure." He shakes his head.

Silence falls between them, and they both stare straight ahead at nothing. She can feel him beside her even through the glass, and she feels better knowing he is there, but she wonders what trouble it must have caused him to come here at such a late hour on a weekday.

"I'm sorry about this, Booth," she says for the third time.

"For what?"

"For the call, for you having to come out here at this time. For being worried."

"Hey, it's alright. None of this is your fault."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he presses his palm to the glass and she hesitantly meets it with her own. "And it's not as if I wouldn't be here, wouldn't worry. You're my partner. It's my _job_ to worry."

"You worry a lot more than you should."

"Eh, you give me a lot to worry about," he smiles at her, but it's almost sad. "But it'll be okay, just like it always is."

"You're sure about that?" The glass seems to be warming under their touch.

"Yeah," he is still smiling in that reassuring sort of way, "I'm sure."

"Good," she shifts and finds herself smiling slightly, "So am I."

--

Yay for what comes incredibly close to fluff!

-shuts up before I fall asleep over the keyboard and forget to post-


	40. All That I Have

--

(Pilot)

--

All That I Have

--

It's silent. Only a hum from far away dares make a sound, for even the light fixtures seem to have stopped their flickering and buzzing.

Her hands tighten and she drops the bone with a clatter.

Click! Click! Clatter! Bang!

She grabs it quickly before shoving it gently into its slot on the skull, her fingers sticky with glue. Then she stares at the reconstruction, her vision blurring in and out of focus.

Her eyelids are very heavy, her corneas burning. Every once in a while she reaches up and brushes her eyes with the back of her arm, her eyelids sealing closed every time she closes them. It takes effort and a small amount of pain to get them open again, and she finds that her hands are shaking as they float in the air, and she must flick her fingers a few times to get her steady posture back.

That was the problem with this silence, this quiet. It was lulling her to sleep. There was no one there to bring her coffee or to offer to trade places; no one there to start an argument, to use as a convenient distraction when her mind began slipping from lucidity to fuzziness. The only staff members here this late are the security guards, who have all retired to the security room upstairs.

Looking up, she grins tiredly at the reconstructed skull. She's been up too long; she's starting to find that it's taking almost all of her energy just to remain standing.

On cue, her knees buckle, and she plops into the chair she had been sitting in earlier. It feels a lot more comfortable then she remembers it, and she starts to find that her legs will no longer obey her commands to move, and her arms feel leaden.

"Damn that humming," she mutters, her eyelids drifting closed. She pushes half-heartedly against the table in an attempt to move, but her chair doesn't so much as shift and her arms collapse.

Just for a moment, she thinks. Then I'll open my eyes and fill out my paperwork.

She tucks her chin into the crook of her elbow and feels her entire body relax. Unable to fight impending unconsciousness any longer, and the only sensation her breath against her arm, she falls asleep.

--

Short Note: This scene in the Pilot actually takes place in the main lab, specifically on the forensic platform; however, as the lab was not in completion at the time the episode was filmed (at least, that's my inference, since Brennan's office is not there, and there are bone storage boxes in the background of the scene, despite the fact that the actual platform gives no sight of the bone room, which is off the entrance to the left (upon entry to the lab) ), I am setting it in the bone room for convenience.

Yes. I know the layout of the Jeffersonian's lab almost just as well as I know the lab on campus.

:P

--


	41. Do Not Disturb

--

Do Not Disturb

--

Six a.m., an unpleasant hour to most. Well, it was unpleasant to him too, but the doughnuts and coffee were always freshest in the early morning since the day shift for security brought them in at five thirty. Besides, he could always catch a nap in his office if he was desperate.

Zack stretched as the doors to the lab slid open, yawning and making early morning grumbling sounds in his throat. He had been up late cleaning the skeleton from the pond, as he had discovered during prep that the chemicals for his cleaning were not in their normal spot. It had taken him almost an hour and a half, three panicked calls to Hodgins, and one very long internal debate about whether or not to bother Dr. Brennan before he had spotted them on a cart in the ooky room as he passed by.

After that, the night had progressed smoothly, and he had left the lab feeling tired but accomplished, waving at Dr. Brennan as he passed by the bone room, where she had been for hours. She waved back, and he left to catch his taxi.

As he walked back in, he noticed that the lights to the bone room were dark, but the doors were open, and his eyebrows knit together as he turned to glance inside. The lights flickered on at his movements—for the room was motion-sensitive—and he froze as he noticed Dr. Brennan asleep on the table, her head tucked into an arm, her lab coat crumpled on her seat. Quickly, he backed out and walked upstairs, knowing that the lights had probably stirred her and not wanting to embarrass her when she woke.

Instead, he headed for the break room, which was upstairs, and quickly made a cup of black coffee while munching on a jelly-filled doughnut. No one was around to see him, so he stole an extra glazed one for Hodgins, knowing the entomologist would want it, before heading back downstairs and popping his head into the bone room. To his surprise, Dr. Brennan was still asleep, so he padded forward and set the coffee at her elbow, as it would stay quite hot for a while longer, and quickly turned to leave, glancing meaningfully at the skull at her elbow before doing so and shutting the door behind him. After all, the day had not started yet, and there was no reason to disturb her at this unpleasant hour. It was six a.m. and she was the only one who had stayed in the lab later than he had even though it was her first night back and had yet to return home.

And anyway, he had never believed that the weary didn't deserve their rest, even if it was just a few hours spent hunched over a lab table long after one was supposed to be in bed.

--

For some reason, Zack setting the coffee down for Brennan impacted me as one of the simplest yet most meaningful gestures made on the show; whenever I think "sweet moment" I always think of that two second blip in the Pilot (why is why I was so glad it was in the credit sequence).

Don't ask me why.

:P

--


	42. 67 Percent

--

67%

--

"Ange," Brennan mumbles. "No more."

"Come on, Bren," the artist replies, her tone light, her smile much too large. "It's my birthday. It's your _job_ to get drunk."

The world spins a little as she gets up and plops into the couch beside her friend, grabbing the champagne glass from the muttering Brennan and filling it, allowing the liquid to slosh over her hand.

"Why are we getting drunk?" the anthropologist asks, taking back her glass and taking a drink.

"Because I'm thirty...something and I'm not married."

Her eyes slit and she is rocking back and forth, though not seeming to realize it until her hand suddenly shoots out and grips the couch arm. "This reminds me of something."

"If you deliver me some sort of lecture when you're drunk, you've not had enough alcohol." Angela hands her the whole dammed bottle.

"No. No." She seems to really be thinking about it, and she places the bottle down with a slightly shaky hand. Then she starts giggling, a strange sound coming from the normally serious or confused Brennan. "Wait...No...It's gone."

"Of course it's gone, honey. Our brains are pickled."

She giggles again.

Angela takes a sip; she's not nearly as sloshed as her friend is, though that may have something to do with the fact that one shot of vodka could normally send the anthropologist reeling.

She is, however, just a _tad_ tipsy.

"Wait," Brennan says, and her eyes closed now, her hand gripping the couch arm so hard her fingernails appear to be puncturing the fabric. "Why are we drinking alone? This seems more like a group activity."

"Because we're single and fabulous."

Brennan's eyes shoot up, "That's what I was trying to remember!" Her tone is triumphant, and a little of the alcohol spills onto her tank top. "Why though?"

"Maybe it's because of that _Sex and the City_ marathon I made you watch earlier," Angela says.

"Oh." She takes another sip. "I don't think I even understood what that meant."

Angela blinks and carefully places her glass on the table before propping her feet next to it. "Hm?"

"Why are we...um..." her voice trails off and her eyebrows crinkle together.

"Single and fabulous?" Angela guesses, finding it strange to be discussing this with Brennan. A _drunk_ Brennan.

"Yeah, that."

"Because that is how we are going to justify being alone on a Saturday night on my birthday. We should be out having beers with loads of cute guys."

"I see."

"And as Sam has shown us in the most inspirational way, we are never too old to get drunk and have loveless sex."

"I don't think I've ever heard you talk like that, Ange," Brennan mutters. She sounds as if she's starting to get tired.

"That's because because my heart is down from 100 to 67% in control."

"Mm. I thought it was because we are 67% drunk."

"Yeah. Could be that."

"Mm."

"Although I could argue you're 150% drunk."

"That's not a valid percentage," she hiccups.

"Okay. That's enough, sweetie," she takes away Brennan's half-empty glass.

"But it was just starting not to burn," she protests.

"Just think of the headache you're going to have tomorrow," Angela says, though not unkindly, getting off the couch.

She purses her lips. "You're killing the buzz."

"I'm surprised you even know what a buzz is."

"I've not spent my entire life behind a microscope you know," she giggles and stretches full out on the couch, her arm slinging over her forehead. "I've spent it in many—"

"Okay. Okay."

"I'm starting to think that nobody wants to hear about my anecdotes."

"I don't even know how you're pronouncing that."

"It's tough," Brennan says. "But, as usual, I have persevered."

"Mm-hm," Angela snorts.

Brennan giggles. "Ange?" she asks, her eyes closed.

"Yes, Bren?"

"Don't ever let me get 150% drunk again."

"Alright. Next time it'll be 67%. S'Okay?"

"S'Okay."

Seconds later, the anthropologist is asleep, her system having apparently conked out.

"Happy Birthday to me," Angela mutters to herself, staring at her friend and toasting in the direction of the wooden carvings on her walls. Then she swallows and heads to bed.

--


	43. Out Cold

--

Out Cold

--

Sleep was a novelty. If there was anything she was certain about, it was that. Her behavior probably didn't reflect it, and there were days that she would forgo it, but in reality there was nothing better than returning to one's own bed in one's own home after a long day, or after a dig in another country for three months, and passing out for half a day.

Her sleep was generally quiet, and if she was particularly tired—as she usually was—then it would envelop her like her blankets, and she would almost literally be gone the instant she hit the pillows. Other days, when she was home early or not working, she would stay awake for much longer, staring at the ceiling and telling herself short stories that would sometimes extend to mental images flowing across her walls and furniture like holographs, and she would occasionally scribble down some of things she envisioned, wondering vaguely if they could be adapted to fit her latest story or newest idea. Oftentimes they went nowhere, but there was never any harm in trying.

And when she finally drifted off, whether it was immediate or slow, her dreams were as varied as her stories. Some were uneventful, so close to bordering reality that when she woke she wasn't sure if what she had dreamt had occurred or not. Other times, it was obvious that they were not realities, as she would find herself flying or performing stunts that no being who obeyed the laws of gravity or physics could possibly have attempted. And then there were some that forced her awake with heart racing, bits and pieces of memory forcing her hands to slither under the pillow on the empty half of her bed, where the comforting handle of a wooden bat was hidden, until her breathing slowed and her terror subsided. She usually never remembered those sorts of dreams, but the feelings they left sometimes lasted into her morning routine.

Today, however, Brennan was tired, very tired, and her bag slid along the floor as it trailed her footsteps, and she kicked it to the side and took off her shoes before heading to bed. She fell into it immediately, not bothering to remove so much as an earring, and curled up between blankets and pillows. The smell of fabric softener enveloped her, and she was unconscious instantly, her hand linked around a wrist, her other balled inside a pillow. Such was the consequence of four shattered skeletons, a Jeffersonian fund raiser, and one extremely long car ride with her partner.

In fact, so complete was her exhaustion that she never heard the apologetic knock on her door approximately twenty minutes after she had fallen asleep, nor the sound of the key in her lock, or the padding of feet on her floors, and least of which the quiet deposit of food in her fridge, and the soft click of her door as her partner left her to rest. But she did find the devil's food the next day, and it didn't take much deduction to figure out how it had gotten there.

He may have been annoying, she had thought that morning, digging into the treat with relish, But he had class, and he certainly knew how to apologize.

--

Hey, look, Mendenbar, more almost-fluff! ;) I knew there was more of it in here somewhere.


	44. Magic

--

Magic

--

Yellow light flowed from top and bottom, and a bird fluttered silently inside the confines which the color created. It was small—maybe a swallow—but as they watched the beak lengthened, and the wings shortened and shifted, and the feathers disappeared until they covered only the elbows and head of the raptor.

The dinosaur looked around, his dark, golden eyes glowing sinisterly, the pads of his feet hitting the bottom of the machine as he paced. When he roared, his face thickened, and his arms grew smaller, and his tail larger and beefer. The tyrannosaurus roared again, and a delayed audio effect shook the room and its occupants.

When he stopped, the vibrations ceased in everyone's chests, and he sniffed about hungrily, making growling sounds. But when he bent, he stayed that way, and his shoulders widened and thickened, and his arms grew longer, and his tail sucked into his body before being erased entirely, and his face lost its fangs, and the reptilian eyes were warmer and squished closer together. A small chimpanzee stood there before rolling onto his hindquarters and scratching his head, looking around, his golden orbits sliding quietly over those watching him—even though, of course, he couldn't see them.

Then he stood, and his arms lengthened and turned as they hit his knees, and his shoulders pushed back as his ribcage widened and his spine lengthened. His jaw collapsed a little, became much smaller, until it formed a slight under-bite with the rest of the skull. Hair receded, and clothing flowed into its place, and a person stood there, glancing around nonchalantly as his eyebrows formed, and his cheeks became narrower and his eyes smaller. His neck grew thin, cartilage forming light shadows as a shirt slowly formed, and the shoulders broadened.

"Like magic," Booth whispered as he stared at an almost mirror image of himself. His fingers moved up to brush the image even as it started changing: the shoulders pushing down, the chest expanding, the pelvis increasing its size. The face shifted, the eyebrows flattening, and the cheeks thinning as the neck's muscles became more prominent and delicate, and the hair lengthened and pulled back.

"No," Brennan said, and she was watching herself now in the the pale glow of the Angelator, "It's science."

--

This marks the beginning of a bunch of descriptive pieces. You're going to start to see why I called most of these Themes experiments with tone and style.

Rest assured, meaning will be back...eventually.


	45. Night

Perhaps appropriately, I wrote this to "He Lives in You" (Lebo M., I believe with credits to Elton John and Tim Rice as well) to be found on _Rhythms of the Pridelands_ (_Lion King_) or your friendly local You Tube video. If you've never heard it, it's worth listening to, and this is another one of those Themes that benefits slightly from the background music. :)

--

Night

--

Stars smattered the sky, great arching boughs of trees and large broad leaves merely shadows under their light, and a moon of almost unbelievable size filled the atmosphere to the right, its glow casting the ground into deep navy colors.

Inky shadows flowed over tall grasses and deep piles of dirt and vegetation. Somewhere far off, out of this stretch of trees, water glittered and flowed, and the sound of insects filled the air, to only be pierced by cries of nocturnal animals and the occasional shifting of soil from nearby. Everything smelled of wet earth, of oldness, of a mustiness that only something that had not seen contact from humankind in many decades could achieve, and the night had slowed everything down, blanketing their actions and providing a sort of security that the daylight didn't have.

Brennan inhaled, her eyes closed, her gloved hands curled at her sides. Her boots were shoved securely into one of the mounds of dirt she had helped create, her spine arched and her neck stretched upward so that she could see the African sky. She pulled her hair from its tie and it tumbled to her shoulders, already shifting to accommodate the breeze which brushed aside the leaves and sent the smell of moist earth to her nostrils.

The lights of their camp caught her eye, and when she turned all she could see were dark shapes moving in front of them, faces only occasionally flickering into view before disappearing into the inkiness of the trees' shadows. Most headed for their tents, small lumps in the dark, and some stayed outside, gathered around a thin fire. Snatches of conversation drifted to her ears, but the sound of the insects jumbled the words, and she made no attempt to listen. Instead, she exhaled and slid from the mound, her boots digging into the dirt and leaving skid marks where she had been, and she headed for the clearing, wanting to be nearer to flatter land.

Plant life folded softly under her feet, and leaves tangled into her hair and clothing, depositing drops of water wherever they touched, or simply falling from unknown heights and trailing off her skin. It had rained some time ago, a long time ago, seemingly eons ago, for she had been in the pit, where neither light nor sound bothered to penetrate, and the smell of death and the ivory whites of bone were the only reality, and when it rained nobody noticed because they were shielded anyway.

When she reached the end of the tree line she did not stray beyond it, and her gloved hands folded over wet bark and leaves as she stared at the water beyond and the few lumbering shadows that had congregated around it. She took off her gloves, stuffing them into a pocket. Her eyes were tired, her fingers cold, but the night had soothed her, and she stared vacantly at the glittering waterhole as the sounds of insects, faraway animals, and the distant camp rolled over her.

Her second month here had just begun, and she was only just starting to feel homesick.

Though, she supposed as she turned from the clearing, She was just as home here as she was anywhere, really.

--


	46. Broken Pieces

--

Broken Pieces

--

The skull was shattered. It was spread out on the table, ivory chunks of an almost impossible puzzle embedded in various boxes of sand. The section for the parietal there, a piece of temporal, yet another place for the maxilla, its teeth pushed into the surrounding sand like small yellowed barriers. Her fingers slid between and around, sliding the pieces that were still on the table closer to her sharp eyes, and she sorted them quickly, occasionally grabbing for the Elmer's, coating an edge, and pressing it into its slot among former companions. A combination of gravity and luck kept them where she placed them, and she left the area alone when she was done gluing.

Her thoughts wandered. This was a job which required both concentration and flexibility, as things were bound to fall or end up glued to the wrong bone, and the best way to do it was to allow her thoughtless experience to take control while conscious thought was elsewhere.

This skull, she sometimes thought, often late at night, her fingers coated in glue and a cup of cold and untouched coffee at her elbow, This skull was a lot like herself. She didn't know why her thoughts took these turns, they just did, and the void of silence—which was penetrated by neither music nor talk—was left to be filled with her mind's voice, which wove her complicated stories or images from memory, as her eyes glazed over and her lips parted. She was aware, yet unaware, of the thing being created by her hands, as her mind was occupied by other thoughts.

And if this skull was so much like herself, she would reason, then that would, of course, indicate she was broken in some way. Broken in many ways. Shattered by the metaphorical baseball bat, car tire, or explosion. Though, of course, she had yet to be run over, so the tire metaphor wasn't quite as sound.

A crusher then?

It would have to do.

But she seemed to know this skull very well, and when her fingertips brushed its smooth, sometimes rough surface it was with a delicacy that even her intimacy couldn't rival, and there was no impatience in her movements, nor jerkiness, and her body seemed utterly relaxed—almost to the point where her connection to it seemed thin—and she felt at peace. Her thoughts, her memories, though having valid emotional triggers, seemed incapable of forcing a reaction, and she could think of anything and remain tranquil, only the occasional eyebrow twitch revealing that anything was happening in her mind's eye—whether it was funny or terrifying.

Though, of course, if the metaphor of the shattered skull was to be extended, that would indicate that although healing wasn't necessarily occurring—for the bone had long since died—the individual pieces were coming back together to form a coherent whole, an object which had once protected and anchored softer flesh and organs to later be drawn back by an artist.

Well, she thought to herself, gluing the now complete jaw to the rest of the finished skull, Maybe she was not so much like this skull.

After all, bone women don't have flesh.

--


	47. Seeking Solace

--

Seeking Solace

--

Her eyes slid over the flat lands, pierced by the occasional stretch of grass or the dusty remains of plastics or rubber. A small patch of wildflowers bordered a few of the stones where they had been thrust into the earth. Some were broken, some remained intact. The nearest was an angel, her wings broken off, one piece of a delicate finger cracked, its other half lost. She stared mournfully ahead, and her eyes met her watcher's dully, the old stone covered with a thin film of dust. Her lips were delicate and small.

Brennan lowered her eyes and head for a moment, the slightest of bows to the silent guardian, her moves involuntary, but slow and careful all the same. Then she looked away, back down to the dusty ground. There was nothing here. Neither a scar nor a stone marked the place where her mother had once been buried. It looked almost the same as the rest of the landscape, but her trained eyes could see the small area of depression and the lack of plant growth; even so, it had required a few old pictures and notes to find this place.

Now the wind stirred her hair and swirled the dust around her ankles. It was quiet here, far from any streets or roads. The nearest tree was barely within view, and the lines of small shrubs and grasses seemed to stretch on forever under the bright blue skies. Lousy spot for a cemetery, but then it had not been used in decades, and only a thin dirt road marked its existence on the planet.

She stared downward, not entirely sure what had brought her here. It had been a long drive, a few hours, and she was merely staring down at a bald patch and, underneath, a filled pit which contained nothing but traces of fluids and dirt. The bones were back in DC, the evidence in a storage locker somewhere deep in an FBI warehouse. The funeral had been a few weeks ago, and she had purchased the stone of highest quality and a coffin of the deepest stained woods. It was her own way of showing she cared; though it would appear that it was not enough, for here she was—out at the original grave site—and she didn't know why.

Long moments passed and her shadow lengthened at her feet. The sun dipped from its high perch and descended into perfect blueness, unbroken by clouds, and the air cooled as the breeze picked up, and dust devils swirled around the stone angel and its solemn marker. She watched it all, feeling nothing but a tepid desire to move, and a small, though viable, ache in her chest. Her tears had dried many years ago, and her mourning had long since ceased to weigh down her thoughts daily. The appearance of her mother in the lab had agitated all of her old feelings, stirring them up and lighting them aflame. But now her wounds were sealed again, and she felt only the dull ache, a quiet reminder of their existence.

She glanced up again and the sky was no longer blue, but blazed in oranges and yellows, streaks of crimson appearing like bloodstains upon a fire. The sun was a semicircle on the horizon, fiery with bright colors, and far above the night was already staking its claim upon the sky. No stars pierced the navy blue, and she looked down again, her eyes catching upon a glitter, a shimmer of silver and gold on the ground. She bent and her fingers closed around a small object, and she raised it to the waning light.

On her palm a thin dolphin laid, its body of sterling silver. It reflected the sunset into her eyes, and she regarded its carefully carved shape, the ache in her chest seeming to deepen as her thin fingers shook. Shaking her head, she replaced the dolphin in its old nesting place, deep between the stems of two delicate flowers, and stood once more, her hands naturally gravitating to her pockets.

She regarded the sunset as she walked quietly back to her car, ignoring the wind as it manipulated her clothing and swirled the dust at her feet, her eyes on the sunlight and the streaks of crimson which were slowly bleeding into the indigo of night.

She still didn't know why she had come, wasn't really sure if it had done anything for her, but at least she knew she wasn't the only one seeking solace in this barren place.

--


	48. Drive

I bumped up a Zack-centered one, on Ape R Son's request.

A personal favorite of mine...

--

Drive

--

Wheels grind a mix of pavement and gravel as they spin, leaving behind a trail of grey exhaust and the vague smell of diesel. Some don't smell like diesel, but a surprising amount do, and he tucks himself farther into his jacket.

A small group of people pass and they converse loudly and not entirely soberly. He watches at the inebriated group piles into the car, and he wants to shout and tell them it is dangerous and they should wait at the bus stop with him because at least they would not be driving in a stupor, but when he opens his mouth he blushes and cannot find the right words to speak. The car pulls out unsteadily and he winces and it is only after they have pulled onto the road that he manages to mumble his words of warning and feels ashamed of himself that he did not speak sooner.

It's cold in the bus stop and no one is there to wait with him, not even a stranger he doesn't know and would never know, but he's glad it's not raining. It was raining earlier and his pant leg is still damp from the puddle he had not seen in a black spot between lights. He wishes he had his cell phone to call for a ride, but it's dead and sitting on his desk at home, between two books and his pet lizard named Gil—even though the lizard didn't have any gills—and is thus useless there. Hodgins had left hours ago, saying that he had a date with Angela, and although he had offered a ride home first, Zack had opted against it, for he had had work to be done. Now the work was over, and his mentor—who sometimes drove him home when they were both there late—has been dragged off by her partner three hours ago, and he has to take a bus which will only bring him to the stop a few blocks from Hodgins' estate, and it will be at least ten minutes before he can get around to his own house.

He sighs.

Some days it really would've been better if he had swallowed his knowledge of structural mechanics and fatality statistics and just learned to drive. It's probably easy too.

He sinks further into his coat and sighs again, feeling sorry for himself.

The glare of headlights catch his eye and a silvery car speeds in and turns into one of the many empty spaces around here. Most of the staff park in the structure during the day, but at night no one is here and so sometimes they use the parking lot. He recognizes the car, at least he thinks he does, and when Brennan hops out, slinging her bag over her shoulder and glancing around herself as if she to make sure she is alone, he smiles hopefully to himself.

She is grinning victoriously as she walks by, and she doesn't seem to notice him, so he gets up and starts to follow her, wanting to get her attention but unsure if he really wants to or if he should just go back to the bus stop and wait.

The anthropologist herself solves the problem, for a curse slips from her lips and she slows down.

"How the hell did you follow me without me noticing?"

His eyes widen in confusion. "What?"

She stops, swivels. "Zack?"

She's no longer wearing her jewelry, and her collared shirt from earlier is now a tank-top covered over by a half-buttoned white blouse, and her pants are light and look like sweats. She seems surprised but pleased, but then her eyebrows crinkle as she looks at him in his rumpled shirt and slightly wet pants.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

"Waiting for a ride."

"From whom?" her eyebrows are still crinkled and she glances around.

"The bus."

"Didn't you once say the bus smells like feet?"

He nods. "It does."

"Then why are you taking it?"

"Hodgins left and I can't drive..." he stops. He wants to ask her if she can possibly drop him home when she is done doing whatever it is she has come here to do, but he doesn't because he's not sure he can ask that sort of favor.

She sighs, turns around. "Come on."

Now his eyebrows crinkle. "What?"

"I'll take you home, Zack," she's already reached her car and she yanks the door open.

"Really?"

"Of course," she nods. "It's not as if I'd just leave you here."

He blinks and smiles. "Thanks." He opens the door and slips inside.

"No problem. Now come on." She's grinning again, that victorious grin when she knows she's won something, "Booth still doesn't know I'm not asleep and I plan to work a little longer before he realizes."

They share a conspiratorial grin before she pulls out and drives him home.

--

And, considering I have two reviews to go until I hit one hundred, can I get two reviews, please?


	49. Heaven

--

Heaven

--

Long day. Really really long day. It had gone on forever. Paperwork, squints, more paperwork, stale doughnuts and coffee that looked like it had to be killed before drinking. Hell, he was _sure_ he'd seen it move out of the corner of his eye.

But now he was home after a round of take-out with his partner, who had fallen asleep with a file still clutched between her fingers. He'd carefully removed it, woken her up, and escorted her to bed—where she was unconscious immediately—and then cleaned up and slipped out. It wasn't that he minded—because he didn't—but they'd been doing paperwork the whole damned day and enough was enough. That was why she had fallen asleep, probably.

His house smelled vaguely like onions and that egg he had scrambled earlier this morning. Or yesterday. He glanced at the clock. One a.m. Too damned late.

He shuffled off to bed, slipping from his shirt and pants as he went. He had long since abandoned the suit, and he figured the jeans and black T proclaiming "Give Me My Space" wouldn't wrinkle too horribly if he just tossed them on the floor. They could, of course, but he wasn't banking on it. Didn't care, really.

When he reached his bedroom, the sight of his bed was by far the most welcoming image he'd seen in ages. He plopped onto the mattress and ran his fingers lovingly along the creases and folds of the sheets, curling his hand around the comforter, and caressing the pillow with another. He grinned tiredly and laid back, the smell of fabric softener heavy upon his senses.

This was heaven, he thought, slipping away. A nice warm bed and a quiet townhouse.

Gotta love it.

--


	50. Sport

So sorry. FF was frozen up yesterday. Third time I've had to write this apology, but whatever...I'm torn between hoping it wasn't just me, and it was the rest of the world, and being mean, or hoping it _was_ just me, and thus everyone else was alright. :P

I'm tempted to just post two in one night, but I opted against because...I dunno.

Anyway, here's....

--

Sport

--

It was all a sport to them. Nothing but fun. Sick and twisted, really. Screams were like demented forms of music, choking a melodic pulsation, death rattles like some whacked-out kettle drum solo. The sounds of torture warmed their black hearts, and the smiles they wore were twisted by ugliness and a sense of bitter pleasure. They delighted in pain, reveled in death, and, like a psychotic Charon, they escorted damned souls to their very real demise—though those they damned often had done nothing to warrant such treatment, and died seeing red.

Sick bastards like them didn't deserve the breath they drew. Were a waste of oxygen. Guys like these made him ashamed to be human. Guys like he'd worked with...he didn't really like to think about them too much. They'd kill him without a second thought, as it was a sport to them as well. Sometimes business, but then there were times where it was just for fun, and anybody with even the slightest marking—even if he or she didn't know about it—was at risk.

Yeah. He didn't think about it too much.

But this guy. This guy was something else. He had never heard about him since before a few days ago. He had wished he hadn't. _In situ_ photos made him nauseous enough. He didn't want to know what the investigators at the scene had thought or smelled. Didn't want to know what they'd seen. It was beyond him how the ME had handled it. The regular skeletons were bad enough, or the autopsies where the stiff looked like he could spring up at any time. But this one...she just didn't deserve it. It turned his gut.

His gun clicked coldly between his fingers as he slipped it from its holster.

It was all a game to him. Offing the scum would have given him pleasure even if he hadn't had a good reason to do it. His next task, though, stirred his stomach, as he did not find any sport in it. But his associates would have his ass if he didn't act, and he cared about himself more than he cared about her.

The muzzle raised and the bound man didn't so much as squirm when it centered on his forehead. The men's eyes met, one clear and cold, one icy, and then an explosion shocked the silence as a bullet screamed through the air. Kevin Hollings died where he laid, his cold eyes glossing over almost instantaneously.

Jamie Kenton slipped his gun back into its holster, feeling nothing for his current action. This death was nothing on his shoulders, though the next brought bile to his throat, swirled fear in his gut, but he swallowed his emotions as he walked away and headed back for his car. He'd rebury Hollings later, he thought, his own eyes glazing over with a sort of business-like coldness.

It was a matter of kill-or-be-killed, quite literally, and he wasn't ready to sign off yet. Brennan wasn't yet either, but he'd warned her, given her chances to turn back. It was too late now, and his resolve hardened in his gut.

The pocket-knife weighed down his pocket.

At least she wouldn't feel anything. After all, this wasn't sport, it was a matter of personal interest.

--

And my unnatural obsession with this episode will continue! God, I hate Kenton.


	51. Dying

This was written way way after "Sport" but it fits chronologically, so I'm moving it. Figure all the "Two Bodies" ones can stay together.

Anyway, my personal suggestion is to read this while listening to Sage Francis' "Seal Lion." I originally wrote it to "A Pain That I'm Used To" (because that's what was originally playing during the scene), but "Sea Lion" fits better.

If not, once again, should read just fine on its own.

--

Dying

--

"You know, he used to slit their throats like cattle."

Her teeth grind hard into the cloth, and it tastes dirty and bitter in her mouth.

Her head pounds. Nothing is coming into focus. She can hear his words but they don't make any sense.

"Told me he used the key to unlock the soul behind their eyes."

Eyes.

Pictures snap behind her eyes. Empty orbits, jaws frozen in screams that she is unable to release. Theirs are silent; hers are trapped in her throat.

_I thought it could be a saw blade of some kind._

They were keys. Kenton has the keys.

_What if she were struggling?_

_Lack of hemorrhage in the surrounding eye tissues suggests she was already dead before the eyes were removed._

Already dead.

Her breath wheezes from her nostrils in rapid and shallow bursts. She can't breathe. There isn't enough air.

"I'm sorry, I really am."

She can hear him speaking to her. Everything he says doesn't make any sense.

Her breath is loud and constrained. Her head pounds and won't stop pounding. Her heart is going fast, and she can feel it in her throat and in every part of her body.

Her fingers dig into the hook she's hanging from, her feet stiffen on the floor.

She can't get up from the chair. It's too awkward of a position.

_Blades are clean. No knicks._

She watches Kenton and he's speaking and then he walks to a table.

_I guarantee, whatever you're looking for, you're not gonna find here._

_What we need might be locked up some place._

Her reality is swimming in and out of focus.

Dogs bark at her back, snarl. She jumps and tries to move again but her hands and ankles are bound tight and then Kenton chips the knife between two bricks and she jumps again and her breath continues to wheeze from her nostrils.

_You can see the scrapings in the orbital cavities—much rougher than the knife scarring._

She can hear her own voice, but she's not speaking.

_It was done with a different weapon._

_Sonovabitch._

_You've seen this before?_

_Yeah._

"I'm not like him though."

Kenton is speaking again. She sees him through bleary eyes, glances the keys poking from his pockets.

"The things I have to do to you..."

_The knife marks were made with a non-serrated blade, consistent with a pocketknife like this one. I found additional marks on C5, indicating that the throat was slashed._

_What about her eyes?_

_The grooving in the eye sockets doesn't match anything on the knife._

"You'll be gone first."

_The crenelations—the grooves carved into the bone around the victim's eyes—they were irregular like the grooves of a key._

"You'll never know a thing."

_Grooves?_

_He must have used a key to gouge out the eyes. And he kept it near him in his apartment. That was his souvenir._

He isn't looking at her, he's just talking. Words from the past mix with his. She doesn't know what he's saying and what she's thinking.

Terror is in her heart. She can feel bile in her throat but chokes it down.

"I never expected anyone to find out."

_You don't think killing Cugini ended a street war?_

_So my death will be justified now?_

_Bureau keeps a shelf on every weapon it issues. You match that slug, it points to my weapon and I go down. And the Romanos make sure I don't talk._

_Well, at least I'm dying for a good reason._

Then he turns and moves closer, but first he shifts and she sees the gun in his hand. She moves away, but the rope holds her. She can't resist, she can't talk to him.

She's going to die in a warehouse at the hands of a cop.

_You killed Cugini?_

The gun is raised above her head.

_You don't get rich working for the FBI._

CRACK!

--

You know, I still maintain that's it's a damn shame I can't use that as a cliffie, because it sure is a good one. XD

And, hazzah, I think this is the perfect one to hit the fiftieth Theme with! I know it says fifty-one, but this is the fiftieth Theme. :D


	52. Breathe Again

--

Breathe Again

--

CRACK!

For a split second, she's convinced it's over. Her pounding head and fragmented thoughts have jumbled reality—she's not sure if it's Penny Hamilton or images of herself in her mind—but she has seen Kenton and seen the gun and heard the shot, and then her eyes have closed and her breath has frozen, and her heart has been paralyzed in her chest for that single second, that one moment, before she's opened them again to see him fall.

Then Booth is at her side, and she doesn't know why he is there or if he is really there at all and she gasps as he rips the gag from her mouth as that wheezing sound pours from her throat as sobs and then she feels his hands on her wrists and pulling and jerking and suddenly she is lifted off the hook and falls onto his shoulders. She holds him tight and breathes him in and her muddled brain realizes that he really is there and she really isn't dead and Kenton must be on the floor because Booth has shot him.

She hears him speak, "It's okay, I'm right here. It's all over."

His arms are tight around her, and her breathing continues catching and that wheezing sound is loud in her ears, and she can hear him repeating those words to her over and over.

_I'm right here. It's all right. It's all over._

She feels him shaking under her weight, and she remembers the explosion and the call to the ambulance and the medical records and then the drive that had put her here to begin with, and she inhales and exhales and pushes back and looks at him.

"How'd you get out of the hospital?"

"Hodgins gave me a ride," his voice is shakier than hers and he winces as he speaks. "Maybe—" he pauses, "Maybe you can give me a ride back though, huh? Could you?"

She nods and she smiles and pants, but she's not wheezing anymore, and he groans and she collapses back onto him and buries her face there while he groans again, and then they stay like that for a while, and she breathes and he breathes. She closes her eyes.

Her head is still pounding but her heart has slowed and she doesn't feel her pulse in her ears anymore and her breathing is slowly leveling. Her selective hearing starts to leave her and the sounds of groaning and talking and clattering and banging reach her senses, and then her partner's labored breathing reminds her of the pain he's probably in and she unwraps her arms and attempts to back up, forgetting her bound ankles and lost sense of balance, and falls to be caught from behind. When she glances back she sees Hodgins and she smiles wearily at him and he doesn't but asks her how she is and she says she's fine and he obviously doesn't believe her but offers in a quiet voice to untie her hands and she nods and mutters yes. His fingers slide clumsily over her wrists and with great haste but she doesn't pay attention because she's watching Booth now and it's obvious that he's in pain.

When the rope slides to the floor, her wrists pulsate angrily and she collapses beside her former captor to undo its pair, which has cut deep into her ankles. Her fingers are uncoordinated, but she eventually manages to rid herself of the rope and when she rises Hodgins holds her arm, and with his support she shoulders her partner and together they walk to some stone ledge where she doesn't have to see the hook nor hear the dogs that want her flesh, and then they sit there for a while.

Hodgins gets up eventually and he says that he's going to get the doctors and neither partner bothers to argue, but when he leaves they look at each other, and hard breaths shake his frame and softer ones still rock her own.

"You look like crap," he mutters and then he smiles.

"Yeah, well," she replies and smiles too. "So do you."

--

That should be the last of my "Two Bodies" Themes...

My apologizes about the ever increasing length of my sentences. I _love_ long sentences.


	53. Cat

And, one for my kitty...

It's not enough for her that I dedicate two of the AUs to her. I gotta dedicate _this_ one too...

--

Cat

--

Cats are quite graceful, almost elegant in their feather-light moves. But their sharp claws and sharper teeth suggest that they are more than simply slinking and pissy sort of animals, and they generally do whatever it is that they please.

And even the domesticated ones always get up with a flinch and then a sudden snap up, usually to regard whatever it is that has awoken them. And if they deem it worthy, the paws will slide out, oh so slowly, as their back arches and stretches back. They hold that pose for a few seconds, maybe yawning too, before shaking a little, turning, and myowing in a "oh-I'm-so-happy-to-see-you-now-pet-me-before-I-have-to-step-on-your-stomach-with-all-of-my-weight-until-you-pay-attention-to-me" sort of way. Though if they don't, then they just give you The Look, or, more severely, The Glare (something which most thought only human females have mastered), or, finally, The Melt-Before-My-Penetrating-Gaze, which is reserved only for the worst offenders, or those who haven't complied with their orders in a timely manner, usually accompanied by a growl. Then they flip over, exhale softly, and fall back asleep.

Now, Booth thought, those were all admirable qualities. If he tried to get away with half the things his old cat had done, he'd be flat on his ass on the streets. But, still, he had all the grace of a drunken giraffe, and it would be nice to be just a little more stable on his feet.

Which was probably why he was splayed on his back on the floor, his jaw throbbing, his jacket bunched uncomfortably under his ribcage. He hadn't even seen it coming; she hadn't given him a _chance_ to see it coming. One second he was standing, talking to his suspect, and the next he was decked.

"Next time, Booth," his partner's voice haled from above as the woman herself stepped gracefully over his legs, "you feel the need to use me as your weaker counterpart while we're undercover, I will aim slightly higher than that, and I guarantee the fall won't knock you out so much as my force."

He watched from his downed position—too shocked to react—as she walked away, the heels she'd been complaining about since they'd started clicking in her wake, the feline analogy clear on his mind.

"Hey, Bones," he called after her, "You ever realize you're just like a cat?"

"Lion or tiger?" she replied, shutting the door before he could answer.

"House cat," he muttered. "But it sure as hell doesn't mean that your smack hurts any less."

He rubbed his jaw.

--


	54. Breaking the Rules

And another personal favorite of mine. Dunno why, exactly, but I really love this one.

During the Pilot or, rather, in between scenes.

--

Breaking the Rules

--

It smelled slightly like old coffee and that odd mix of fabric softener and cologne that resulted from the movement of many many people through one room day in and day out. It was a smell he had long since grown used to, grown to like or maybe just expect after a while, and sometimes when he inhaled he did it in a way that was almost relishing, but not really since he didn't particularly like why he was here.

Shifting, he glanced out the one-way window.

She was pacing around like a caged animal, her eyes roving over her cell, her lips curled in obvious displeasure. No fear tensed her muscles, and every once and a while she'd stop and stare directly at the mirror, scorching the air between them, before beginning to pace again.

She did this for almost an hour, and eventually her strong gait taxed and her eyebrows scrunched closer together, her lips finally loosening and relaxing into a frown. When she stopped moving, she didn't glance at the mirror and instead dropped heavily onto the bed that furnished the cell, and she rubbed her eyes with her hands before pulling out her pony tail and allowing her hair to fall back onto her shoulders and face.

Booth shifted uncomfortably. He still wasn't sure what he was doing, and his boss had remained mysteriously unavailable, leaving him to make the final decision. An hour and he still wasn't sure, but there was no way he could leave her to stew any longer. He felt it was cruel enough as it was.

So he left the observation room and walked around to the holding cells, but she didn't look up when he entered and he decided to just stand there until she did something.

Finally, she spoke, "I will never work with you again." Her voice was soft, though it managed the slightest edge of conviction; mostly, she just sounded drained.

"Bones..." his voice trailed off.

"First, you insult me professionally and now I am in a prison cell," she was still talking in that same voice. Tired. "I am afraid to know what will happen to me next. Perhaps I'll be abducted or maybe someone will murder me?"

"No," he took a step closer to her and her cell. "No, Bones, I wouldn't let that happen."

"Don't call me Bones," she glanced up, her eyes as tired as her voice but still piercing, and she straightened.

He smiled a little, but her eyes narrowed and it melted off. "Sorry, Dr. Brennan."

She shook her head and stood but then turned and walked away. "What are they—What are you planning to do with me?" she started pacing again.

He shrugged and answered truthfully, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" she scoffed and walked to him, finally getting closer and slipping her hands around the bars, her nails digging into the steel. "You don't know?"

"No." He was so close he could see all of the little details in her face, the pockets under her eyes, the strands of hair that had fallen into her face. He could feel the puff of her breath when she exhaled.

"Why?"

"You shot a man—no warning, no nothing. You stole that gun from the firing range."

She clenched her jaw.

"Hell, I don't even know if he's still alive. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I told Angela to phone you. She did. You came. That's all that matters."

"But it's not, Bones, it's not. You _shot him_."

"He didn't die," now she sounded alive, angry. "That wasn't a fatal wound. He was planning to set the whole goddamn building on fire, with me in it."

"Why didn't you warn him?"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "I don't like being threatened."

"Well, you need to have some more control."

At this she laughed bitterly. "If I had bothered to warn the last person who threatened me like that, I'd be dead."

He didn't have a reply, and her eyes searched his face for something which she didn't find. She shook her head and sighed, swallowing and closing her eyes, and then she walked back to the bed and dropped onto it, rubbing her face again.

He watched her, knowing he was on unstable ground and not knowing how to rectify the situation without causing trouble.

"Will I go to prison for this, Booth?" she asked finally. "For shooting a man who callously murdered his girlfriend to protect his job?"

"I don't know."

"You don't seem to know a lot of things."

"Thanks a lot."

She glanced at him again, "Do you think I deserve to go to prison?"

He looked at her, the memories of the past few days heavy on his mind. "No," he said after a beat, shaking his head. "No, I don't think you deserve that, Bones."

She seemed surprised. "Really?"

"Yes."

A ghost of a smile briefly touched her lips, but her voice was bitter as she said, "Though it would seem that your belief in me does not ensure my freedom."

He exhaled. "Bones..."

She didn't bother to look at him.

This time, he rubbed his face with his hands, knowing exactly what he wanted to do but knowing it was a terrible idea. But, hell, all of his ideas since a few days ago had been terrible ones, and when he looked at her he knew it was the right decision.

That was why he had the damned keys after all.

He exhaled and slipped the ring from his pocket, selecting one of the silvery objects and inserting it into the cell's lock, and it clicked before the door creaked open.

Brennan's eyebrows twitched and then she looked up, her eyes widening when she realized what he was doing. He nodded slightly before reaching for her coat, which was hanging on the wall, and handing it to her.

"Why?" she asked, taking it and staring up at him from the bed.

"Because you're right; you don't deserve it."

She rose and shrugged the coat on, watching him as if expecting him to suddenly lock her in again, and that look didn't leave her face until she walked out of the cell.

"Won't you get in trouble?" she asked her other question as he shut the door behind her and slipped the keys back into his pocket.

He shrugged. "Maybe. But don't worry about it."

"Thank you."

He smiled. "Come on, there's a diner around here. Let's get you something warm to eat."

"I don't have any money." She shifted.

"My treat." Impulsively, he laid a hand on her shoulder and she shied away from his touch. "It's alright," he said soothingly. "I'll take you home if you want."

"Truly?"

"Yes. Come on." He gestured toward the door.

"Thanks." For the first time tonight, she smiled.

He nodded. "Least I can do."

He allowed her the lead out, and although he knew that with every step he was digging himself deeper into the grave with his boss, for tonight and probably for tomorrow and the next day after that, it was worth it.

--


	55. Playing the Melody

And now for some random ones...

--

Playing the Melody

--

The room is empty, quiet, and she glances around herself before walking in just to make sure she is alone. The air smells vaguely like dust and mustiness, and old perfume and wood polish, and the shapes of desks and chairs fill one side of the room, while the other is taken up merely by one large, slightly rounded block, and it is to that that she walks.

Her fingers slide almost guiltily over the wood and when she raises it and looks she can see a fine layer of brown on her skin. She wipes it off.

There's a click from behind, and she glances around but sees nothing there, so she turns back to the dusty piano and stares at it. Hesitantly, she reaches forward and runs her hand along the ivory keys, giving only enough pressure to feel but not make a sound. Then she stops and her finger hovers over a key—D, as she remembers—and presses down.

The note reverberates around the room, and she jumps back as if surprised to hear the sound. No one comes running in, no voice hails her. As the vibrations and the sound fade, her other hand slips onto the keys, and she shifts so that she is better centered. Then she presses that note again, and her other hand fills in a second note.

More sounds fill the air, and still no one comes. Her memories are coming back to her, even though it's been so many years, and her fingers gravitate downward again, and she presses three notes and then a fourth with two keys, enjoying the feel and the sound and the thoughts that fill her mind, until finally she sits, glancing around herself carefully first, and beginning to play.

It's an old song, a happy albeit slightly disjointed one, and her fingers remember the keys instead of her mind. She feels an odd disconnected emotion as the sound of bebop piano fills the air, but she smiles anyway. Her fingers move faster and faster, and the jazzy sound eventually drifts away as bits and pieces of other songs are remembered, and then suddenly she has slowed down and lyrics pop into her head to go with the sweet sounds of the piano, and she hums quietly to herself. As she goes, her humming becomes louder until eventually she opens her mouth and forms the words, softly then more audibly.

And Angela sits there for a while doing that, passing through song after remembered song, her voice—beautiful to her ears—floating over the piano's notes, all the while unaware of her quiet observer, who has entered without notice and leaves before she stops, but who smiles at the songs she sings and the shyness with which she had begun.

--


	56. Hold My Hand

--

Hold My Hand

--

They were all gathered together, and Angela's voice gave a narration over the hum of the computer and the glow of the monitors and the garbled sounds of audio that oozed from the speakers. It was down very low, though just loud enough so that everyone could hear it but not quite _feel_ it in their chests.

_Brian!_ a voice screamed and _Lori!_ was the reply, as a figure in a beanie and jacket came in and out of the camera's focus, and her continued wails reverberated around the room.

Cam's heart was in her throat and pounding hard, her leg locked to prevent her from moving. She felt Brennan shift uncomfortably behind her, heard the exhalation from Angela, and her stomach churned because she didn't know what they would or wouldn't end up seeing on the tape. Her eyes were glued to the screen, and she felt unable to look away even as the urge to bolt coursed through her body. She stayed put, but, impulsively, reached over and took Seeley's hand.

He squeezed and she felt him shift too as a new face appeared on screen and said things into the camera, his voice a high note of panic. The camera kept shifting in and out of static and focus and half the time she found she couldn't really see the man speaking too well. But his fear was palpable and his expression and voice made her neck prickle and her heartbeat kick up its tempo still until the blood sprayed onto his face and he screamed and then the tape suddenly cut out, leaving them all in a stunned and roaring silence.

Zack was the first to speak, "That was extremely disturbing," he said and everyone silently agreed. Angela was making snuffling sounds.

Cam's hand was still locked around Seeley's, and she felt him cross himself. She wished suddenly that they were alone so that he could wrap his arms around her and lock out the screams that filled her mind, but they weren't, so she squeezed harder and so did he.

Angela was the first to break down and leave, and Hodgins followed her as she rushed out, the rapid clicking of heels the only indication of where she was going. Then Zack oozed closer to Brennan and they exchanged a few quiet words before quickly heading out themselves, both hands tucked identically into their coats as their equally tall frames crossed from the room.

Then Cam and Seeley were alone, and they stared at each other.

"Want me to hold you?" he said, and it was sincere but only slightly jokey, and she snorted in an upset sort of way.

"Just for a little bit," she replied with as much lightness as she could muster, "and then I have to run a tox screen."

He nodded, and they let go of each other only briefly before he enveloped her in his strong frame, and she wrapped her hands around his back and felt better because Seeley made everyone feel better, only this time much more because they felt close again, and it had been a long time since she had gotten this sort of comfort from him or anyone else.

--

Yes, that was Witch.

And, yes, I do ship Cam and Booth...this is the only Theme where I realistically indulged...


	57. Hero

--

Hero

--

They stand silently, listening to the funeral procession, which is small and quiet. A few stand on the outskirts, away from the coffin but staring at it, and some stand closer, also staring at it. Only two people are crying, and everyone else has their lips set in tense gestures of solemnity.

The priest says things and does things and then he steps back to allow other people through, who place things on the coffin. A few plastic toys, a flower, two flowers.

Booth steps forward, out of silent alignment with his partner, who is standing with hands tucked into pockets, and walks to the coffin.

Inside, bleached bones are all that are left of Warren Granger, who was murdered before he could die of leukemia, and his funeral crowd consists of investigators, his parents, and a few of his friends, all of whom viewed him more through the perspective of his comics than his actual life. And the woman he had died for, to protect, is standing there in black, her hands also tucked into her pockets, looking no less frail than she had two days before in the interview room.

He sets his sharpshooter medal on the coffin, beside some sort of green monster. It's the least the kid deserves after all. He had once been a hero in the Gulf, and although Warren had been unable to rescue his Opalescence, he had died trying. The hero's archetype, if there ever was one.

--

Alley, if you didn't recognize it.


	58. Keeping a Secret

--

Keeping a Secret

--

She stands still, swathed in black, her hands tucked into her pockets, and talks to the people whose family's funeral she has paid for; their coffins stand on either side of her as they speak, and a mixture of Spanish and English floats through the air, her voice low and soothing, theirs almost regretful but hopeful. People walk by and around them, as the service has ended, and the little group continues to talk for a while before finally splitting, and the family, and the artist and the anthropologist separate, the two agents from Immigration following silently behind.

Their backs are still to him and he runs up before either can turn and see him, between the coffins of Maria and Augustine Duarte and the cross made of flowers and the stone headstones.

"Am I in trouble?" he asks Angela, who glances at him with a look just touched by amusement, albeit sobered by solemnity.

"You're late for a funeral," she replies, smiling. "Of course you're in trouble."

Brennan turns and glares at him over her shoulder, and her grey eyes are sharp over the black of her long coat.

"Sorry," he says in response to her unspoken chastising, "I apologize."

She turns away from him for a moment, and says nothing.

"Everything okay here?" he prompts.

She looks back at him, "Where were you?"

"I had something to do."

"More important than a funeral?" she asks, and the irony makes his stomach hurt.

He almost wants to tell her it was, and maybe even why, but instead he says, "I thought so at the time," and he smiles.

She says nothing and simply walks away, raising her brows and giving the slightest shakes of her head. There is no reprimand and no punishment, and she, of course, is completely unaware of where he had been a few minutes ago. He's confident that if she ever finds out she will give him a verbal confrontation that will probably also include a physical retribution of some sort, but his thinking is that at least she'll be alive to give it.

So he follows her down the little grassy hill of the cemetery, glad that between him and Ortez there is no one who can tell his secret, and that his prideful partner will not only have gotten away with beating up a gang leader, but survive to do it again.

--

My pathetic tribute to Garden, and, yes, this was a Yard original. :P Although I have Themes up through probably 80 backed-up, it was too annoying to be transferring and making new docs.


	59. Sorrow

Listen to "Nightbirds" by Ryan Adams if you so choose; it's the song in the epi, and the song I'm describing.

--

Sorrow

--

The dull notes of the piano flowed into the silence of the office, and a low voice sang. There was a bit of percussion, but it was mostly in the background and helped to add a little hardness to the almost-whiny quality of the singer's voice and the deep, though uncomplicated, piano melody. An electric guitar appeared near the end of the song, and its input led the notes to a quiet climax.

Brennan stared vaguely at the blue lines which reacted to the different sounds in the music, her eyes barely open; the effect was almost hypnotic, and she felt herself tiring on her hand, which was falling asleep.

Outside, the lab was still, and there was no one around to object to the song, which had probably been looping for the past fifteen minutes or so. Probably more. She wasn't really listening to it, and though she had never really understood the lyrics, she found it somewhat comforting to sing along mentally, though she couldn't bring herself to hum.

So Ryan Adams continued to sing "Nightbirds" to her, and she allowed his voice to lull her, and the feeling of pain which had already condensed in her gut, into a sort of quiet reverie.

It wasn't surprising, really, she thought bitterly. In fact, it wasn't surprising at all.

But it had been.

She exhaled and her eyes remained slitted and focused on those moving blue lines.

It had been surprising. He hadn't given any indications of psychosis. Mental defect. Insanity. And she had really thought that maybe, just possibly, she had found someone who could understand.

But no.

Will Hastings murdered his brother. Thought a dead witch, executed in the 18th century, had told him to cut off his own brother's head and bury both it and the body.

She had been so desperate for that connection, that common line between them, that she had missed it entirely, and her team had been the one to see it, not her. And she still hadn't wanted to believe it, for the moment Booth appeared at her table she knew, but she hadn't wanted it to be true. She wouldn't have accepted it, but then the men spoke and reality came crashing through the perfect evening.

Murder. Blood. Dead witches and ambitious film students.

And then memories of her own brother, her own past.

And if he'd stayed...If Russ had stayed.

Who would she be?

And then she remembered her family, the family she had never known, at least not really, and that hard ball of pain in her gut began to liquify.

Her eyes burned behind their lids, which she sealed shut. It was not worth crying for; she had already cried, cried for many nights and for many things. There was nothing here to mourn. After all, it wasn't surprising.

But it had surprised her.

God, she wanted to sleep.

And here she was again. It would seem that she would always be alone, and after each failed relationship she would be sitting behind this same desk, with those same skulls staring at her to her left and those same lab lights to her right. And she would feel just as lonely as she had for almost sixteen years, for it was not only this song that never changed, but her personal life.

It was true, she was not trolling for love. She was having enough trouble finding a connection, let alone somebody to love.

Although she had thought she had finally found him, just possibly, found someone with whom that sort of connection could be forged; someone who would understand. Someone whom she would not necessarily have to hold back from, because he would know some of it himself. But...

No.

She leaned back in her office chair.

Apparently not, and she would be alone for another night, and another morning, and another day, and she was unable to do anything about it.

--

I think Brennan was listening to "Nightbirds" for real in Witch, 'cause when I watched it that's just what it felt like to me.

Also, I don't really buy this fourth season Brennan...I just find it absurd that she's completely unaware of love. I think by now I know her pretty well, and I think she was always wanting that connection but was a) continually burned and b) couldn't find someone who related to her closely anyway. And I believe that even more now, after having read _Growing Upside Down_ (seriously, all, if you haven't read that, just go now and find it; it's on FF and it's amazing and worth every second it takes to read).

Anyway, this is basically a direct copy from the Yard (again). Please leave a review and maybe some thoughts to my fallen laptop and subsequent muse, will you? :P


	60. Drink

Off the episodic, back to random...starting with what should (hopefully) be funny...

--

Drink

--

It could've fooled you, honestly, from the way they walk up to that table that it's really okay. That the stuff that's there isn't festering and steeping in some sort of bacterial cesspool that those horror movies from the sixties used to love to showcase. I mean, it doesn't really smell any different from the normal stuff, and when you get closer it looks just the same as it should, but it's not. It's just not.

It's a mystery where it comes from. No one knows. And he knows because he's asked around. It just seems to appear, magically, and everyone on staff claims that they are not responsible for its existence. One guy said it was the higher-ups working to cut budgets. Another claimed it was a long running joke from the people in the FBI forensics lab and that they had produced it in a secret lab behind a secret wall that nobody except the squints knew about, and they brought it up in the middle of the night when nobody was suspecting and then went to their nerdy bars to drink virgin martinis and toast to the rest of the office's stupidity.

And there was another person who said it had nothing to do with the FBI, but was really the nutters down at the Jeffersonian who had gotten a free pass in because of him—that somehow it was all his fault. But he had told them off because the problem had been malignant for longer than he had known his partner.

After all, this was an issue that seemed to stretch back to the founding of the FBI office. There were rumors that J Edgar Hoover himself had been heard complaining about it. This sort of anecdote broke the accusing finger that pointed to the Jeffersonian, but the fact remained that that...stuff in the cabinets was still there, and all explanation for it was lost.

Of course, not everyone knew about this long-standing problem. It was a sort of rite of passage for rookies to find out for themselves that first night they had stayed up a little late or came in a little early. And that classic grimace, that wince as if he or she had tasted urine or smelled an open outhouse, was like a beacon to all that they had gained a new brother or sister in the life of the office.

What was strange was that everyone kept getting the stuff. Consistently. Even _he_ got the stuff. He didn't drink it, he just set it on his desk. Maybe he'd take a customary sip, then gag and forcefully swallow before abandoning the cup. Perhaps he thought the taste would change; or, possibly, he thought that this time would be different. For whatever reason, every day he'd refill that cup, dump loads of sugar into it, then a little cream, and then not drink it. His partner seemed to follow the same ritual—although at her office she _actually_ _drank it_.

Blasphemy, if he'd ever heard it.

But, then, the Jeffersonian seemed to have escaped the curse.

The Curse.

It sent chills down his spine just thinking about it.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, and he headed across the hall and took a turn to go into the break room. It was automatic, really, because that's what you do in the FBI office at seven a.m. on a Tuesday.

And then he took the pitcher, which was making soft gurgling sounds—not something he wanted to consider this early in the morning—and poured a hearty serving into his mug. Then he dumped the usual sweets into it to make it, at least in theory, edible.

The brown sludge barely seemed to react as he stirred it with a wooden stick, and the smell—perfectly normal, though with a hint of sewage—wafted up to his face and left a vague burning feeling in his tired eyes. But he ignored this and trudged to his office, setting the mug down on his desk and then grabbing for his morning-briefing report.

Naturally, the coffee was not touched or even noticed for the rest of the day, but its presence was felt by not only him, but the rest of the staff at the Hoover, as it was every day.

--

Government coffee. Gotta love it. I have not had the dubious pleasure of trying it (thank god...and I don't even _like_ coffee), but I believe I have heard/read complaints about it in so many different books and shows that it was time to give a little tribute.

:P


	61. Childhood

Now for one of my personal favorites. Unfortunately, I edited this one special for FF, but, alas, laptop is still dead. Gonna go ahead and edit again anyway...

:P

--

Childhood

--

Brennan leaned back in her chair, staring at a line of block print that seemed to extend to a point somewhere beyond infinity. She didn't know why this person had decided to dump the entirety of his personal life into this message—sandwiching what was, presumably, the information she had asked for in the first place—and, honestly, she didn't really care. All she knew was that if the words were beginning to swim in and out focus, it was time for a break. A long break.

And so she did, and she nursed a cup of tea she had recently made herself while she zoned out. Her mind wandered, and she ended up somewhere deep in her memories.

She hadn't always been so intent on work and diligence and seriousness. Hell, she hadn't even had any desire to be serious for the lesser part of half her life. The shift had occurred after her parents left, but before that if someone had told her she would be in the middle of a bureaucracy working with dead people and other people who had just about as much personality as the dead people, she would have scoffed or laughed or arched an eyebrow and smirked and then moved on with life. Sixteen years ago, rules were meant to be broken—but quietly, because _not_ being caught was half the fun—and you were in trouble if and only if your door was padlocked from the outside and your windows were bolted shut.

Of course, that's when a toolbox came in handy, but no matter.

Her brother had been the most obvious source of entertainment, for not only was he older and had fairly attractive friends that always seemed to catch her attention five seconds before she was set to devour some sort of foodstuff, but he also had the odd combination of a good sense of humor and a horrible temper. She had played on this relentlessly.

Sure, there was the odd egg she'd rig to crack on his head, or the toad she'd found out on the field and brought home in a plastic tub that had once contained her lunch, who had later ended up on her brother's bed. There was the mouthwash she'd swapped with Dad's whiskey, the chair with a cleverly sawed-out leg, and, of course, the bathroom which she had coated with those little bugs that always appeared in late June seemingly by the trillions. All of them had provided her a source of amusement for hours both pre- and post-prank, and even nowadays she could appreciate how utterly evil she had been to her brother—especially whenever it was not a prank she was pulling, but retaliation.

Of course, she never got off scott-free; if her brother didn't come back with his own retribution fast enough, her parents were always sure to make sure she'd clean up her own mess. It had taken her hours to peel all of those bugs off the bathroom surfaces, only to find that later that night they had all ended up inside of her pillow.

For that, Russ had received a full make-over to his face.

She had gotten a slug placed onto her forehead.

Dad had ended the series of paybacks before they could reach full-scale war with the longest surprise dental trip that had ever taken place in the history of any of their lives. After that, Russ and her had made a loose sort of alliance. They had even shaken on it.

But then his friend, Jason Weaver, had come over, and her pounding hormonal heart had thrown all thoughts of consequences out the window.

The metaphorical war trumpets were sounded again, and this time Mom had been forced to step down from her perpetual position of I'm-not-getting-involved-because-this-was-all-inherited-from-your-father-and-I-had-nothing-to-do-with-it-in-the-first-place and she had created her own sort of retaliation.

Russ had to sleep in the doghouse for two days.

Temperance was relegated to the attic.

Later, there were arguments about who had gotten the worse deal. Temperance claimed that it was extremely musty and the cobwebs up there had probably infiltrated her lungs and were slowly festering to create some sort of mutant hyper-bug that would kill her in a few weeks worth of time and no one would ever know the true reason for her death. Russ had responded by saying that the roof was leaky and moldy and _he_ was going to get the hyper-bug because everyone knows that bacteria did better in warmer places.

She had told him smugly that their lungs were probably both of the same temperature, and thus his argument sucked. He had told her that the hyper-bug had taken root in her brain and that it probably currently resembled swiss cheese.

Naturally, those June bugs had ended up in his bathroom again, and then she spent another two nights in the attic to theoretically "think about" what she had done.

Russ had sniggered. She had socked him. He would've hit her back but she had told him that since he was a guy and she was a girl he was not allowed to hit her by the codes of chivalry. He had replied by expressing doubts over her sex and then hitting her anyway. A scuffle would've broken out then and there but then Dad appeared in the doorway and they had scattered, calling each other names over their shoulders.

Yes, Brennan thought, getting up from her office chair, stretching, and then leaving her office and heading in the direction of the exit. She had once been quite the trouble maker.

A shout suddenly reverberated throughout the halls, followed by the piercing cries of the alarms, and she dashed for the glass doors of the Jeffersonian as they started sliding shut. She slipped past just before they sealed and she laughed to herself at the panicked sounds from within the lab.

The chemicals weren't quite June bugs, but they still had the same effect.

--

Once again, I decided not to agree with fourth season Brennan (why not? I'm ignoring the season anyway), so this was my interpretation of her life pre-Christmas of '91.

^^^ I wrote that the first time I posted this. I believe at the time I was rejecting the whole "I've never done anything bad" thing, because, what the hell, I'm rejecting the whole season. :P At any rate, this was fun to write, and, you know, especially after having read _Growing Upside Down _I really want her to have had at least a partial good childhood, even though I wrote this long before that fic was even written...

Anywhoo, leave thoughts at the metaphorical ding and, Mendenbar, I've gotta give you props (whatever the hell props are) for that poem. XD All of you, check the reviews to see. It's hilarious.

Until tomorrow...


	62. Two Roads

And now for a little call-back to my AU...I admit it, I miss the Thirty-First Charade.

Minimal (current) edits, and sorry about the ending. :P

--

Two Roads

--

Temperance Brennan paced around the table, and her eyes were focused completely on its contents. She was too far away to see the little details, but she was close enough to see the most obvious ones.

"An impaction fracture here," she said, pointing to the left patella. "It's an old one. Healed."

"Probably a few years old?" Zack asked to her right and she nodded.

She picked up the skull. "Definitely male," she noted, focused on the massive brow ridge and, when she flipped it, the even larger occipital protuberance. She didn't even need the pelvis to tell her, but her grad student picked it up anyway and then made a verbal note of agreement. "Probably mixed race." She glanced back at him. "Thoughts?"

"African and Caucasian," he replied quickly and she smiled.

"Very good."

He beamed.

"Cause of death?" another voice asked and walked up to the table and those situated around it.

"Projectile," Zack said, grabbing for a clipboard and handing it to Cam.

"We recovered two bullets," Brennan said, handing the skull off to Angela, who nodded. "One in his shin, another in his head."

"Head wound killed him?"

She shrugged, "Safe assumption, but we haven't looked long enough to determine anything."

The pathologist nodded. "Call me if you need me." Then she walked down the steps, passing Booth as she went. The agent tromped up the stairs and walked over to the table.

"Got an ID yet?" he asked.

"No," Brennan replied, not looking up from the tibia and the bullet she was currently trying to dislodge.

"Going to have one soon?"

"No."

"Going to have anything useful soon?"

"Talk to Zack," she told him and her grad student quickly rushed forward to tell her partner, in words that were traveling a mile a minute, what they knew.

"I'm not translating," she said before he could ask and she heard a sound that probably accompanied a scowl.

"I'm going to take the skull to my office, okay, sweetie?" the voice of Angela haled as the artist passed within her thin line of sight and out again.

"Alright," she said absently.

Zack took his station beside her, reaching for the patella with the old injury, and they were so close they occasionally brushed together but neither really noticed. Hodgins swooped in and collected the things that were falling out of the crevices on the bones—most of them maggots—and they didn't speak. Her partner sighed and leaned back against the forensic platform's railing, and he asked nothing further unless she invited him to, and so the night rolled on.

-

Joy Keenan leaned back on the old bar stool, her eyes focused on the bowl of bar nuts that had been abandoned two seats down. She wanted them, so she felt around the inside pockets of her dark coat until she found a pen, pushed it to the end of her fingers so that she was holding it by the clicky top, and then reached forward until she was half out of her seat and the pen was hooked precariously inside the bowl. Keeping her hand steady, she carefully pulled the nuts to her, and when the bowl was within reach she snatched it and munched triumphantly on her prize.

"You could've just asked for it, Joy," a voice from above and slightly to her left said and she glanced up into the brownish-black eyes of Tom the Barkeeper.

She shrugged, "It was more fun this way."

"And if you had fallen out of your seat?"

"I either would've bruised a few ribs or been knocked unconscious and then you could've looted my wallet while I was out."

"Tempting thought," he said, and he placed a cigarette between his teeth.

"I have fifty cents and a piece of gum," she said, waving away his customary offer of a cigarette from its greasy box.

It was his turn to shrug, "Still tempting." He lit up.

"Nice to know where your loyalties lie," she rolled her eyes, ignoring the smell of cigarette smoke. "We've known each other for six years now."

"Which is why I'd do you the courtesy of moving you to a private room instead of simply dumping your unconscious ass outside."

"Hm," she nodded. "That would be nice of you."

"I'm feeling charitable today."

"Apparently." She chin nodded toward a figure in the corner. "What's his story?"

He shrugged, "Word is he's looking for someone."

"Who?"

"Now that would be telling."

"Then I'll keep my lips sealed," she smiled at him. It was a predatory sort of smile, but she knew it had a little charm to it if she timed it correctly.

"It'll cost you."

"Do we have to go over the contents of my wallet again?"

"Then give me your gum."

"Doubt it'll help your breath, Tom," she said and fished around inside her pocket until she found the stick. She didn't know how long it had been there, knew it probably had the texture of cardboard and the taste of carpet fuzz, but he had asked for it so she gave it to him.

"I can still try, can't I?" the old barkeeper said, and he tucked the gum into his breast pocket.

"So, what's the good word?"

"Looking for Sam," he said.

"Sam, huh?" she asked and glanced back at the heavily shrouded figure. "What for?"

"Wants to make a deal."

"She doesn't do private meetings."

"She's doing one today." He blew a puff of smoke out the corner of his mouth and then ground the butt into the bar until only its ashes remained. "Speak of the devil."

Joy glanced over to see the door to the Charade open and a woman in a heavy trench coat appear beside it. She shut the door and grabbed the edges of her coat and vigorously shook herself like a dog, and water droplets flew off both her and the coat before she made eye-contact with Joy and walked over.

"Nice to see you," she said and then stole a handful of nuts and dumped it all into her mouth. Her grey hair was falling around her face, but she ignored that.

"Nice to see you," Joy replied and she bristled when she felt a presence behind her. Ahead, Tom didn't stiffen, but his eyes were locked on whatever was beyond her shoulder.

Beside her, Sam shifted closer, so close they were virtually touching, and then she felt something hard pressed into her hand.

"Trouble," was all her old partner, the leader of the Underground Bank, said, and it was so quiet Joy was not entirely certain she had really heard it, but the gun in her hand was a definite affirmation of her words.

Silently, she rose and the two women locked eyes with the icy blues of the man standing across from them. He was tucked heavily into his coat, and the smell of tobacco and sweat oozed from his figure with a pungency that the bathrooms' of the Charade couldn't rival.

"Got it?" his hoarse voice demanded quietly and Sam nodded beside her.

"Yes."

That was all the signal they needed, and the three headed outside to the Charade's back alley to make the theoretical exchange. Once the door closed behind them, the strange man grabbed Sam's arm. "If you're lying, you little bitch, I'll make you pay."

There was a sudden movement, and then the tables were turned. The leader of the Bank had him backed to an old wall, the silvery muzzle of a gun pressed to his forehead. Rain poured from gaps in the alley, and Joy held her own borrowed .22 in the folds of her coat, hoping she wouldn't have to use it but prepared to do so if it was required of her.

"Next time your employer crosses me," Sam said and her voice was steely, "It won't be merely your insignificant brains that paint my coat."

He was unable to resist or defend himself, and despite this the man's eyes were cold. He said nothing, and then there was a click.

_BANG!_

He crumpled and Sam sighed and slipped her gun back into her pocket.

"I did warn him, Joy," she said, and the thief nodded, saying nothing. Legitimate excuses were hard to come by, but in the end it didn't really matter because business was business, and life in the underground trolled ever onward with or without the presence of any one person.

"Sorry to drag you into this," Sam continued.

"Ours is a business of opportunity," she replied. It was the credo of the workplace, everyone's personal motto.

"Don't suppose you could help me get rid of him?"

"Where?" she asked, walking closer to both her and the dead man.

"Monty's doorstep."

"It may start a war," she warned.

"Our war's already started," her old partner replied tiredly.

Joy nodded and grabbed the man by his shoulders while Sam took his legs, and so the night rolled on.

--

Impulsive, yes. And no, this isn't AU canon, it was just a scenario.

For any who are also following my AU plot, you'll learn more about Joy and Sam's past excursions in _A Siren's Deception_, whenever that may be posted. :)


	63. Teamwork

Originally written on request for Thnx4theGum's anniversary (her request). She wanted something light involving teamwork and Brennan and Booth. I came up with this...

(thus, dedicated to Miz Gummy Bear and, Mendenbar, apologies about the second paragraph :P I don't have the heart to rewrite it)

--

Teamwork

--

The air was still, the halls were quiet; the lab was, for all intents and purposes, silent. A glorious thing to wake up to discover. Usually it was some sort of clatter she'd awake to, or a bang, or shouting; or there were times she'd wake up to find a post-it on her hand from her resident friendly artist or pathologist telling her that she would be needed in the autopsy room or an office or the platform as soon as she rose from her comatose state.

But this time there was nothing. She was free to do as she wished in her dark office and equally dark lab. She had fallen asleep after an early dinner on her couch, and thus the reason she had woken up at around one a.m. However, to a workaholic, hours do not matter, and one can always work whether it be in pouring rain or scalding sun because she was in a sheltered lab with fluorescent lights and a time-card that she wouldn't actually punch in until her work hours "started."

So, grinning, she rolled off her couch and headed to her bookcase to retrieve the latest publication of the SIL, which was over a month old, and then went back to her couch, plopped down, snuggled into the warm space between the cushions and her blanket, and began to read.

She was just getting into a fascinating article about the effect of conversion efforts on local language in New Guinea when she was interrupted by a sound. Or, more accurately, a syllable, which was further exaggerated by the loud clinking of glass against another glass surface. She didn't have to turn to know the source of the sound, and so she didn't.

"Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooones."

She closed her eyes, exhaled. New Guinea was going to have to wait another night.

"Why are you up this late, Bones?" her partner asked, dropping onto her couch arm. His mouth, and thus his voice, were both very close to her ear, and she rolled her eyes up to give him The Glare.

"Oohh," he said. "Scary, Bones. Almost pissed my pants."

"Please don't," she said.

"Naw. I have more control than that."

"Congratulations. You are now at the level of virtually any domesticated pet."

He got off the couch in favor of a chair, which he scraped closer to her and then plopped into. "That hurt," he said.

"Good," she replied.

"I won't take that personally though, Bones, because I know you don't mean it."

"I don't?"

"Nope."

"How do you know?" she glared at both him and the bottle which looked suspiciously like alcohol that he was clutching in both hands.

"Because I," he tapped his forehead. "have amazing mind-reading powers."

"Have you already been drinking, Booth?"

"A little," he put his index and thumb together to indicate that small amount before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a couple of crushed-looking paper cups.

"Surely you didn't drive here?"

"Of course not. I'm a gentlemen. I took a _taxi._"

"I see."

"I'm glad, Bones," he began the process of reviving the cups into utilitarian objects once more, and she watched with a mixture of irritation and agitation.

"Does this mean I will also be taking a taxi home?" she inquired.

"Yes."

"Why? Your determination that I will never go home without an escort?"

"That's part of it." He nodded, "But you can't blame me after all those psychotics have come climbing through your window."

She scoffed. "All the times I've been snatched it was never inside my apartment."

His hands paused their movement with a cup, and he raised his eyebrows at her.

"Okay, maybe not _all_ of the times, but the majority."

"You know, I just love how we can discuss it like it's nothing after the fact."

"Well, that's because it's after the fact. And I have survived, haven't I?"

"You know what? This is just too depressing to be talking about today."

"Why? Is something going on?"

"Yes!" he handed her a now un-flattened cup. "Did you forget? I swear, I reminded you like ten times."

She vaguely recalled an e-mail or two. "I remember the reminding, but not the message."

He exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "See, this is why you've got to listen to me."

She shook her head, "Why? Most of the time when you say things you're really just talking to yourself."

"Well, this time I wasn't talking to myself—"

"So you don't deny it?" she cut in.

"...I was reminding you of an important date." He breezed right past her interruption.

"Is it your birthday?" she asked and then tried to remember.

"No, Bones, it's not my birthday." He rubbed his face with his hands. "You know, for a genius you really should pay attention more."

"Do we have to go through the 'you are continually talking to yourself' thing again?"

"No. Please, god, Bones, no."

She waited.

"It's our anniversary!" he announced and then began filling their cups.

She sniffed the liquid, which had also sloshed onto her hand, and her nose wrinkled. "Booth, this will knock me unconscious if I drink more than a few cups."

"We gotta start building your alcohol tolerance, Bones, and this is why I said you're going to be taking a taxi home."

"Can't we celebrate without the scotch?"

He stared at her as if she had just suggested that the alien pods had landed.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"Bones," he muttered and then said some more things under his breath, shaking his head.

She stared at him helplessly and made a pathetic, "But—"

"Nope," he shook his head again. "We've been partners for three years today. Just think of it as a way to completely drown out all the horrible things that have happened and replacing it with a weird buzzing sound in your head."

"You're really making inebriation sound more and more attractive."

"You see. You're finally getting it."

"That was meant to be a sarc—"

"So was that," He held out his cup. "To us and our three years of working together."

"But I—"

"Drink!" he took her wrist and guided it forward until her cup hit his and then he brought it up to her lips while he swallowed the contents of his own cup.

Grudgingly, she parted them and allowed the liquid to slosh into her mouth and throat. It burned like fire and she gasped.

"Good, huh?" her partner said and then moved to refill.

"No," she shook her head, fighting a gag reflex. "It's just as bad as it always is."

"It'll get better. Soon you won't even feel it."

"I don't understand why we have to get dru—"

"You're the anthropologist! It's custom!"

"But we're not in a bar, we're in my office."

"All the more reason why we have to get so drunk the furniture starts to dance with you."

She stared at him and he raised his cup again.

"To Bones!" he shouted in an intoxicated voice.

"To bones," she replied and then, of her own willpower this time, met his cup with her own. They drank together and it still burned but not as much.

"I don't wanna know if you were toasting yourself or the ones on your table."

"I was—"

"I said I didn't want to know." More refilling.

"To the Squint Squad!" was his next announcement.

And then they drank.

He placed the bottle down on her table, as well as his cup, and leaned back.

"What?" she asked, her mind already feeling a little bit fuzzier than it should.

"Feels like we should be doing more than drinking, Bones," he said.

"Well, that's why we shouldn't have gotten drunk. Now we're stuck here."

"Not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking."

She tapped her foot impatiently, watched her leg jiggle. She hated being drunk before and after, but during it always seemed to feel wonderful and she suddenly wanted more alcohol.

"Have you remembered anything yet?" she asked finally.

He scoffed, "Says the woman who couldn't remember our anniversary to begin with?"

She didn't have a reply, so she didn't attempt to voice one.

"Uh-hm," he said. "Oh! I got it!"

She stared at him, her brows arching.

"We should say something sentimental."

"Such as...?"

"I don't know," he seemed to lapse back into thought.

"I don't want to remember this moment as something corny," she said.

He laughed, "Bones, remember? This will all be a series of fragmented memories tomorrow and onward."

"I see."

"I'm glad." He finally refilled both of their cups but he stopped her before she could reach for the cup.

"What?" she asked. "You were so determined to make me drink and now you're stopping me?"

"Well, I mean, even if we don't remember it tomorrow we should still say something important."

"Why?"

"Because we've been partners for three years. It's just something we should do."

She leaned back heavily. "If you wanted eloquent, you should have waited to force-feed me alcohol."

"You mean you could be eloquent, Bones? I never realized."

She considered socking him with her pillow but decided that she didn't want to stain her carpets, so she reached forward and slammed her fist into his shoulder.

"Ow!" he cried.

"Shouldn't say things like that," she said with a grin.

"Fine. Fine." He threw up his hands. "There's nothing to say. After three years, we've got zilch."

"Not exactly," she replied.

"I thought you said you couldn't be eloquent when you're drunk."

"I never claimed I was going to be eloquent. All I said was 'not exactly.' "

He rolled his eyes, flipping his cup between his fingers.

"We have created, Booth, a team, however dysfunctional it may be, and we have learned to work together despite our differences and obvious sources of conflict. We have also locked away many murderers, saved a few people, and formed bonds of friendship within two offices that had—previously—had nothing but contempt or disrespect for each other. In our three years, we have been able to work together as a team to solve problems that would've been impossible for either of us separately." She stopped, noting the stare he was giving her. "What?"

"You know what, it would've been better if we had avoided the corny. Think you were right."

"Thought we weren't going to remember this moment tomorrow," she muttered and poured herself a drink.

"And I thought you couldn't be eloquent drunk." He paused, received his own refill. "I don't know how you pronounced half that stuff right there, Bones."

"I've got many talents," she replied.

"Apparently."

"Fine. Then what do you suggest?"

"A toast."

"A toast?" she repeated.

"Yes." He raised his cup. "To teamwork."

She mirrored his movement. "To teamwork."

They clicked the paper cups together, raised the alcohol to their lips, and swallowed.

"I liked my speech better," she informed him as she refilled both of their glasses.

"I liked my toast better," he replied.

"Mine was eloquent."

"Mine was simple."

"Touché."

"Bones?"

"Yes?" she paused and looked at him.

"We're not nearly drunk enough."

"For once, I whole-heartedly agree."

--

To mostly quote Gum...

Review after the beep.

Plz; thnx; Kay


	64. In the Storm

--

In the Storm

--

"Zack!" a voice thunders through the hall. "Zack?!"

The sleepy grad student opens an eye and yawns. He's curled up on Hodgins' couch, tucked underneath two blankets, his head resting on a large, soft pillow that is shaped like an extremely obese cat. Outside, rain and wind are roaring against the side of the house, so loud he imagines it must be almost deafening outside, and he tries to remember why he has awoken.

Another shrill "Zack!" tells him why, and he sits up to see a panicked-looking entomologist slide into the room on fuzzy blue slippers, his matching robe rumpled and in need of retying.

"What?" he asks.

"I was listening to the news," Hodgins starts and his eyes are roving around the room nervously, like a jittery horse, "They think it's going to be an electrical storm."

"So?"

"Zack," he comes forward and grabs him by both shoulders. "Electrical storm. Electrical systems." He shakes him back and forth, back and forth. "Does this mean _anything_ to you?"

"Not really..." his voice trails off and then his eyes widen. "Oh."

"Yeah."

He slides from beneath both the blankets and Hodgins' grasp, revealing his red dog-carrying-an-anatomically-incorrect-bone pajamas and his equally red plushy socks. "I told you it would be bad for us to set up an illegal satellite connection using the materials we stole from the lab."

"First off, Zack, we didn't _steal _them because I own half the place, and secondly you failed to _convince_ me."

"You can blame me all you want, but I sense that that would be just another way to avoid your role in this matter."

He scoffs. "We don't have time for this. We have to construct a plan."

"But it's on the roof."

"Exactly." He leads him to a table, where he pulls a large piece of paper from his robe, as well as two pencils. "We've got to use the materials around the house to get the dish down successfully without killing ourselves in the process."

"That would be ideal," he replies dryly.

"Zack, now is not the time to develop your sarcasm skills."

He does not reply.

"There's a window on the roof, but we can't reach the dish from it, so we've got to be resourceful."

"How many wood objects do you have around the house?"

"Not enough, Zack, not enough."

"That's troublesome."

"But we can't lose faith or hope. We must try!"

"Okay," he says and decides to put faith in Hodgins' words because the entomologist is the strongest out of the two of them and thus whatever plan they construct will most likely be carried out by him.

"Have any ideas?"

"Let me think for a moment," he says and then he closes his eyes, his hands closed around a pencil, and ponders. After a few minutes, he opens his eyes. "I think I know what to do."

They set to work.

-

Angela watches her insane boyfriend and equally insane work colleague from her position inside Hodgins' bedroom. She's sipping coffee, hot coffee, and she makes sympathetic sounds and grunts every time their weapon of choice—which appears to be roped together kitchen supplies—slips from its job of getting the metal thing down from the roof. She had overheard something about "electrical issues" and "satellite dish," and she had realized eventually that that metal thing must be hooked up in some way to their electrical circuit. After that, she had followed the trail of wires from the metal thing to a single connection in a black box of some sort, and then she had unplugged it and taken one of the smaller wires with her to twirl around before making herself a cup of coffee. For her late-hour entertainment, she is watching what can only loosely be described as "men" attempting to knock the metal thing down.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

There is a shout of triumph that she is barely able to hear over the sounds of the storm outside and then she glances over to see that the metal thing has indeed fallen from its perch atop the roof. She snorts as they high-five, twirling the electrical wire between her fingers, and then downing the rest of the coffee.

"Men are idiots," she mutters to herself as she heads for her nice warm bed. "But I love them anyway."

Although that didn't stop her from relegating her now soaking wet boyfriend to the couch when he finally came in, as she told him that he would _not_ be making her cold and wet too when he got into bed.

--


	65. Misfortune

Originally inspired by the short story "Alexander's Day" AKA "The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day." The version on the laptop was edited a little better (was originally more in tune with the style of the short, but I changed it), however, since this is the Yard cut, I ain't doin' nothin'. Bear with me on the end. It's for funsies and flow purposes.

--

Misfortune

--

At six thirty the clock sounds after four hours of sleep and she smashes it to the floor with the back of her hand, where it bangs and clatters and silences and will obviously never make a sound again.

And then she rolls in her bed, her very warm bed, to see the dead clock and she curses and fumbles for her wristwatch which tells her she is late.

And then she runs quickly, too quickly, to the shower, and bangs her ankle against the door frame as she does and it throbs as she wriggles out of her clothing, hitting the water with a finger and getting it caught between the handle and the tile, and she curses again and hops under water that scalds her skin.

I should've been a telemarketer, she thinks to herself, yelping and squeezing herself into the small space between water and wall, Or one of those consultants.

She's out of shampoo, so she uses soap instead, even if it is bad for her hair, and then she gets out from under the water and steps outside, only to find no towel there, so she gallops to her room and grabs her robe and wraps it around herself while she curses some more and then glares at the mirror.

There are pockets under her eyes and she notices something new on the corner of her mouth. She leans in to look and sees a line.

She turns.

Still there.

Great. She's aged three years in the span of a night.

Shoulda been a telemarketer, she mutters to the air. Or a consultant.

Then she runs for her kitchen.

The bread is moldy, the milk is lumpy, the yogurt is greyed and fuzzy. Her trail mix is stale, but she eats it anyway, even though she doesn't like trail mix and never has and never will. And when she goes back to her closet to dress, she notes that her clothing is rumpled and her best shirt from last night has a new indelible stain.

And then she curses again and dresses in jeans and a light pink blouse that she had gotten two Christmases ago from a colleague who had lost ten pounds and thus no longer needed it. And then she thinks to herself that screw her colleagues, they can deal with her with wet hair and pink.

So she runs a brush through her hair—which gets caught on a knot that she had not noticed had developed there—and says another curse, much more loudly, and yanks her hair up into a pony tail while her hair tie snaps in half.

She uses a rubberband instead and knows it will be caught later but doesn't care.

When she finally leaves the apartment, she trips and falls onto her knee, and it cracks and begins to ache, so she curses even more loudly, gets up, and limps to the hallway.

She hopes vaguely someone will see her to help her, but no one passes so she's forced to take the elevator alone with a throbbing knee and throbbing hair and throbbing stomach because the trail mix has done nothing for her. And when she reaches ground floor she hobbles out and to her car, which is three blocks away, and no one offers to help or ask why she is hobbling so she feels sorry for herself and thinks she should've been a telemarketer or a consultant.

And when she reaches the car it's out of gas so she glares at it and decides that she's going to make a colleague give her a ride, and when she calls he's in a foul mood and she's in a foul mood and they yell at each other but he agrees to pick her up.

When he arrives, a half an hour has passed, and he blames it on traffic and she blames it on him and they yell at each other some before getting into the car and turning away from each other and then driving away. He doesn't put on his seatbelt, and neither does she, and she hopes, strangely, that someone will smash into them so that she can die and be a telemarketer or a consultant in her next life, and he can be another telemarketer and they'll meet and this time get married and they'll have many telemarketer children that never had to get up at six thirty in the morning or go to bed at two.

But then they get stuck in traffic and she just hopes that her colleague will pull out his gun and shoot her instead, because it will be faster and she is going to hell anyway.

And then she wonders if telemarketers go to hell but decides not to think about because she could also be a consultant, and consultants don't go to hell because she said so.

And when they finally get to the lab, the coffee is congealed and strange tasting, and she doesn't want to look at it too long because she's afraid that it will look back, so she dumps it quickly down a drain and heads to her office where she notices that her office papers are all stained yellowish-brown and she realizes that it's because one of the cleaning crew had knocked over one of her formaldehyde vials and broken it and spilled it all over her desk without cleaning it up. So she curses again, this time loud enough that people outside can probably hear her, and then heads to the other side of her office because at least she can just slice up a dead person to distract her.

But no dead person, man or woman, meets her eyes and when she hears a voice in the doorway she considers murdering whoever it belongs to so she can slice her up instead. And when she turns she sees another one of her esteemed colleagues, who tells her something she doesn't listen to and then leaves without giving any consideration for her terrible horrible day, and she wants to run after her and tell her everything and that they should both become telemarketers or consultants because it would just be better that way and then they could both have long paid vacations that they actually took and be friends and browse the local male populations at exotic Hawaiian islands.

But she doesn't and the esteemed anthropologist disappears around the corner in her own rumpled clothing and unmade-up face, as she has obviously not bothered sleeping the night and then she realizes that it probably isn't just her who is having a terrible horrible day, so she sits down at her desk and stares at her empty coffee mug for a while and then gets up and jogs to the exit, ignoring her throbbing knee and throbbing hair and thoughts of telemarketing or consulting until she finds her other colleague who had driven her here to begin with and asks if she can borrow his car.

He gives her that look as if she is insane, but she ignores it and grabs his suit and digs around until she finds his car keys and then runs off for his car before he can object. It takes her three different stops at three different coffee places before she finds one that is open and sells drinks that don't resemble FBI coffee and she purchases two before heading back on her bad knee and borrowed car to the lab, where she heads to her other esteemed colleague's office, not bothering to return the first colleague's keys.

The esteemed anthropologist doesn't notice her until she clears her throat and then she accepts the offered coffee with a look of surprise and a tired thanks.

Then Cam sits and rips off the top of the coffee and says with a flourish, "We should've become telemarketers" and Brennan replies, "I prefer consulting."

--


	66. Eyes

PURELY 100% self-indulgence. I don't know what triggered it, but I was pissed and needed to right a very common wrong...Yes, it's silly and doesn't necessarily make any sense, but I wrote it anyway on a whim.

--

Eyes

--

It had started at school.

"Alright. Align yourselves by eye-color. Blues here, greens there, browns over there."

She hadn't moved.

"Temperance?"

"My eyes are grey."

Snort. "They're blue."

"No. I'm telling you, they're grey."

"Stop being difficult. Just get in a line."

So she stood by herself in an area between the groups of blues and greens, muttering things and glaring at the teacher to _ask_ for a challenge.

Then the DMV office.

"Eye color?"

"Grey."

"There's no slot for that."

"Well, what is there a slot for?"

Slight pause. "Blue."

"My eyes are _not_ blue, they're grey."

Another pause, and then the grossly obese man from the other side of the counter leaned forward, overwhelming her with the smell of cologne and tobacco, and said, "They look pretty blue to me."

"Well, they're not. They're grey. They just look blue because they are influenced by the colors around them."

Her driver's license said "blue" in the slot for eye color anyway.

Then college dating, and that weirdo who had attempted to charm her by writing a poem.

"And your azure eyes sparkle..."

"Stop."

"What?"

"My eyes are _grey."_

"What?" Pause. "No. They're blue."

"What? You think I don't know my own eye color?"

Another pause, "No..."

"Change it to grey."

"It's _my_ poem."

"Which you wrote for_ me_ and about _me. _Change it or get the hell out."

Huffing, "Fine, _Miss_ Brennan."

Then he stomped out, and she stared at the space he had occupied for a moment before shrugging and returning to the work that _actually_ demanded her attention and didn't ask for her eye color.

She had dealt with all other DMV and poetry related situations in the same manner. Not that anyone else had ever written poetry about her, but it didn't really matter because if the guy didn't even know her eye color he wasn't worth her consideration.

And now, currently, Brennan stared at the article that had been written about her in the local newspaper after an interview for her upcoming book with her jaw hanging open.

"Imbeciles," she muttered and tossed it in the recycling bin, the phrase "sapphire eyes" still wringing in her head. It was petty, but it drove her_ insane._

Still muttering that caustic word combination, she rose abruptly from her desk and tromped outside, where she ran nearly headlong into her partner.

"Hey, Bones, I saw your article. Congratulations. I—"

She grabbed both his arms and squeezed to indicate that she wanted him to shut up before saying, "Tell me my eyes are grey."

"Wha—"

"If you don't, I am going to slam you to the floor and make sure that at least one bone is broken in the process."

His eyes widened and his lips parted in shock.

"So what color are my eyes, Booth?"

"Grey," he said weakly.

"Good." She released him and walked away.

--

Yes, they ARE grey. I don't know why it irritates me so much, but it does. I have read SO many threads and fanfics that say Brennan has blue eyes. She doesn't. They're grey. In fact, her irises have more green than blue. They're nowhere near sapphire, don't touch the sky, don't hint at the ocean.

To quote my response to someone questioning me:

" Her irises, right around the pupil, have a cloud of green surrounded by a _very_ pale ring of blue. But the majority of her eyes are grey.

The reason her eyes seem to change color (and it confounded me forever until I finally said "screw it" and began trying to look harder) is because depending on the color she's around, it will emphasize one of the three colors in her eyes--either the green, the blue, or the grey.

Like in Garden, the end scene, her eyes are unmistakeably grey. Steely grey, really.

In Fridge, when she was on the stand, they look very blue.

In the conference scene in Boneless Bride, her eyes look green. "

Again, I have NO earthly idea why it irritates me so much that almost everyone seems to think she has blue eyes, but it does. Maybe I'm jealous because grey eyes, to me, are far more gorgeous than blue, and my eyes are neither and are just a boring brown with some green thrown in, thus getting it wrong to me is just...wrong. According to Misleto7 _she_ originally said grey but noticed everyone else was saying blue so she switched. This is my effort of throwing a rock in the pipe to bog down the issue.

-rant closed-

By the way, I'll get back to meaning, however briefly, next Theme.


	67. Smile

--

Smile

--

He tapped the buttons with his index finger, the other pressed to a page to underline a number. Dial tone dissolved into a steady ringing, and he picked up the phone to take it off speaker, pressing it to his ear. His heart was fluttering in his chest, and he could feel himself flush with each ring of the phone.

This would be the fifteenth time he had done this, and he wondered if this time would be any different than the last. He debated with himself every year, stood in front of the phone for close to an hour just staring at it and wishing that it would tell him what to do, and every year he eventually picked it up, dialed, and waited until there was no answer before leaving a short three-word message which was never returned.

Tracking her down was never really the issue. The fourth and fifth year she had changed numbers after he had called, and it changed again when she had moved in the eighth, eleventh, and, finally, twelfth year, but after the fifth year she had never really made a conscious effort to shake him, as she just ignored him. But every year he would try, he would reach out, and if she wanted to, she could do the same.

Which was why he held the phone to his ear, and why he was waiting with that same jittery feeling in his stomach and heart that he had every year. He never went in expecting an answer, not from the start, but he always hoped for one. There was always that _maybe_. That feeling that there would be a point in time where he wouldn't be waiting, he would just be expecting, and she would answer and they could talk and it would be like a conversation between two normal people, and their bridges could begin to mend.

The ringing stopped, and he waited for that click and the sound of her brief message before the answering machine came on, but there was simply dead air.

His heart was in his throat, and he swallowed. "Tempe?" he said, and it required almost all of his effort to say her name. "Did you pick up?"

"Yes," was her reply, and it was stiff, though he didn't hear an edge in it.

He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, but a warm feeling was starting to calm it. "I want to tell you something," he said.

"What?"

His lips twitched into a smile, "Happy birthday."

And then there was a pause and she said, "Thank you, Russ."

--

A personal favorite of mine...don't know why. When I first sat down to write something called "Smile" I got all these stupid ideas, and when I finally peeled all of them away I just thought of Russ for some reason. -shrugs- I dunno. Just kind of made me feel kind of a bitter-sweet sort of warm fuzzies while I wrote it, even if the end always seemed abrupt to me.


	68. Rejection

--

Rejection

--

The scent of lavender and mint drifted through the air, mingling with vanilla and other fragrant flowers as rows of candles flickered and water gushed from the spigot. A light jazzy tune poured from the speaker she had installed in the far northeast wall, the first track of a playlist that could go on for two hours before having to start over.

She turned off the water and ran her hand luxuriously along the high row of bubbles that had been created with a mixture of bubble baths, inhaling its flowery scent. Careful to avoid the wine glass she had set on the ledge of the tub, she slipped out of her robe and into the water, closing her eyes and groaning in pleasure. The headache that had developed three hours ago at work was already starting to dissipate, and her sore back was responding to the water as if it were a masseuse. For all intents and purposes, she relaxed and melted into the tub.

Her finger lazily traced circles in the water and the foam and she knew it was very likely she would be going absolutely nowhere for at least the next hour, so she reached for the hand-towel hanging from a hook above her head, dried her hands, and reached for the novel she had tucked on the tile ledge which normally held her soaps and shampoos. Thumbing to her bookmark, she sighed and settled more firmly into the water before beginning to read.

It was a very sarcastic sort of book, and it had twinges of both romance and irritation, and she found herself snorting or laughing at regular intervals. It had been a week since she had last had time to read it, and right now it simply added to the deliciousness of the night.

Then her phone rang.

She didn't know why she had brought it in here to begin with, truth be told. She hadn't really _wanted_ it in here, but she was so used to putting her work ahead of personal interest that the movement had been thoughtless. Though, of course, it _was_ work calling. Always was. Not as if somebody else would call her simply because they wanted to.

Her thoughts were already starting to darken, so she quickly put a mental block between her and the phone and went back to reading.

It worked for approximately two minutes before the damned thing started up again.

Muttering things under her breath, she reached down to the floor and felt around until she found it and brought it up to her ear.

"What?" she barked.

"Bones! Oh thank god!"

She removed the phone from her ear and stared at it, wondering if she should really stay on the line. She was sure the phone had an off-button somewhere, and if it didn't she could always slam it against the tub until it shattered and then go back to her evening.

A garbled "Bones?" drifted from the speakers and, with a long suffering sigh, she took it back to her ear.

"Yes, Booth?"

"I'm in crisis mode!"

"Mm hm," she reached for her wine and took a hearty sip.

"Parker just came here from Rebecca's and apparently his class has to do science projects and Parker's telling me that this kid Alex's father works at a chemical lab out in the boondocks so he's going to make this awesome fiery explosion with tons of colors and stuff and he says—"

"What's the crisis?" she cut in.

"Well, Parker knows that Dr. Bones works at a big lab too and he was wondering—"

"_You_ were wondering," she muttered.

"...If you could spare us any chemicals and tell us how to make a_ bigger_ explosion."

"I am an anthropologist, Booth, not a chemist." Though she wasn't about to tell him that in the brief stint of time she had been doing chemistry she had made many explosions, color changes, and other such things to entertain herself. She would also sometimes to do it late at night to celebrate closing a limbo case or merely because she was bored.

"Oh, come on, Bones, you_ know_ you want to do it."

"I really don't." She took another sip of wine and wished she had brought the whole damned bottle in with her.

"But..."

"Booth, not now. If you want help with this, call Hodgins or Zack. This is exactly the stuff they love to do."

"But you're my squint. They're your squints."

"I don't know what that means, but I am, in fact, not working tomorrow and plan to spend the rest of the night doing as little thinking as possible. Just call Hodgins. You know his number."

"But..."

"Good night, Booth."

"But..."

She hung up, found the off-button on the side, dug her nail into it, and killed the phone.

She could apologize later, she thought, sinking back into her warm water and the smell of scented candles and loving the fuzzy feeling of foam against her skin. For tonight and tomorrow, she was rejecting all thoughts of work and her partner in favor of a little time for herself.

--

Eh...I really don't believe that Brennan is a pure workaholic who never takes time for herself. And, as a Reichs fan, I felt it only right to draw a bath--or write one, as it were.


	69. Family

--

Family

--

The trashcan was overflowing, and tissues were scattered around it not because he had missed his shot, but because there was no more room inside to fit them. He could go over and stick something heavy in it, like his foot, and crush them down to make some space, but as of the moment the room seemed to spinning and he was sure that if he got up the world would tip on its end and he'd just fall right the hell off it.

He was sure it was just a cold, but then Bones had gone ahead and said that it was probably the flu and jinxed it, and the next thing he knew Cam was threatening to inject him with smallpox if she got infected from him, and he was banished from the lab. Then Bones had shown up again and insisted on bed rest, and then Cullen was telling him that he was officially on sick day and if he came in and infected him he would be asking Dr. Saroyan to come by and inject him with smallpox.

So he was home and on his couch blowing his nose and throwing tissues, and the world was spinning and it was all Bones' fault because she had jinxed it.

He was just citing that sniveling kid in the park who he'd had to drag Parker away from as the other culprit for his flu when there was a knock on his door.

For a moment he wondered if it was Cam with her smallpox, but then he remembered that she was going to avoid him and try to inject him with a dart gun from the next building over, so he figured it couldn't be her. His next thought was Bones, and then he thought that he shouldn't make her sick and miserable too so he should figure out a way to turn her away without hurting her feelings. But when there was another knock, he realized it couldn't be her because she wrapped and this was more of a timid tap-tap-tap.

He rolled off his couch, wrapping his soft blanket around his bare chest before padding to the door with socks that featured Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny. His boxers had the phrase "What's up, Doc?" emblazoned upon them, so he figured it was a good combination.

Tap-tap-tap.

He opened the door, and his eyebrows creased together in confusion.

"Agent Booth," Zack stuttered first, making eye-contact even though his body was tensed to run for it. He wondered if he and his compadré had been chosen as the suckers who would be administrating his smallpox for Camille, but they weren't holding needles in theirs hands, only tupperware.

"Brennan couldn't come by right now," Hodgins explained. "Archeology Department had some sort of urgent matter for her to deal with."

"For what?" Smallpox?

"Well, to give you these," he handed over the tupperware, and the agent held it up to eye level to see some sort of thick broth with a lot of other stuff in it. The container was still warm, probably had only just been made.

"Chicken noodle soup?" he asked incredulously.

"Yeah," the entomologist nodded.

"Angela wanted me to give you this too," Zack said, and he held up a plastic bag containing a few cookies, peanut butter it looked like, as well as a piece of paper. When he took it he saw a doodle of himself with a tissue and the words "Get better soon, FBEye candy" on a banner below his feet.

He blinked. Maybe Camille had already injected him with the smallpox and he was hallucinating now.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you're sick, man," Hodgins replied, "And when you join the squints, you become one of us, and we take care of our own. Sort of like the Mafia, only we don't kill people."

He just stared at them.

"Dr. Brennan insisted that we should stay with you until she is free," Zack said in his timid but firm sort of way. "We asked Dr. Saroyan too, but she said something about smallpox so we decided that the best course of action would be to stay here and make sure you have what you need until Dr. Brennan can come by."

He blinked, "Thanks." Man, this smallpox stuff must be pretty strong.

Automatically he backed up, eying them the whole time, figuring he might as well not lock out two figments of his imagination, even if they _were_ squints.

Hodgins smiled winningly at him and trooped inside, followed very closely by Zack, who stepped on his heels and was reprimanded with a sharp exclamation of his name. Then they set about in his kitchen. Zack asked where the pans were, and he told them, and then there was clattering as one was removed and set on a burner and the flame was clicked on.

"You want anything, man?" Hodgins asked, walking back to Booth, who had settled back on his couch. "Need your mail or something?"

"No." He shook it his head, and it was starting to dawn on him that the squints were really here and in his kitchen and heating up soup for him.

"Hm," he glanced around. "Trash can looks like a mess," the entomologist chided and slipped a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket before dragging another can from the kitchen and filling it with the tissues that had fallen from the original one. "You need anymore tissues?"

"No." He shook his head again.

"Yeah, you do. Box's almost empty. Got another one around here?"

"Bathroom."

He left to retrieve it, and by the time he came back Zack was hovering above him and asking if he wanted a pillow or something. He was trying to refuse, but the assistant was insisting that there must be something he could do, so he finally sent him off to get him a pair of pants.

He had agreed with a nod and left like a man on a mission, and Hodgins smiled and handed him a freshly opened box of tissues before heading off to the kitchen to stir the soup.

Booth fingered the bag of cookies between his fingers, "Angela, she made these for me?" he asked.

"Yep," Hodgins replied. "From scratch."

He went silent. This was a completely new experience, not just the squints but the waiting on him, and when Zack walked in and handed him a pair of sweats he muttered a thanks before slipping them on.

He beamed as if he had just called him the most intelligent and attractive man in the world and then quickly scampered off to check on the soup with Hodgins. They discussed something with muted words, but he was unable to eavesdrop as he was distracted by the arrival of another person—or, really, persons—at his door, neither of whom bothered to knock before walking in.

"Cam's coming," Angela explained. "She said that there's no smallpox with her because you're not contagious and she's coming here."

"Which doesn't make any sense, seeing as she doesn't have access to smallpox," Brennan said and shut the door. "But I'm assuming she was joking, so I didn't question her about it."

Booth smiled, "That's good, Bones."

"Wow, Booth," Angela said. "Going shirtless today?"

The artist's eyes were focused on his chest, and he quickly pulled his blanket tighter about himself.

"Soup's ready," Hodgins called from the kitchen. "Dr. Brennan—you know where the plates are?"

"Coming," she replied and walked over there while Angela plopped onto the couch next to the agent.

"What is all this?" he asked her, watching his door open again as the final member of the squint squad entered the room with a smile directed at him.

"We're helping you get better, Booth," the artist replied. "It's what families do."

"Family, huh?" he repeated.

"Of course, Seeley," Cam replied and settled on his left couch arm. "You're like the grumpy uncle who goes around threatening to dunk everyone in the toilet but secretly loves being around."

"Only you have a gun," Hodgins' voice drifted from the kitchen.

"Yes," the pathologist said. "You have a gun."

His partner walked in, flanked by her two squints on either side, and he watched her as she set a tray on a nearby table and then offered him his soup.

"It's hot," she warned as he took it.

"Thanks," he said.

"You'd do the same for us," she replied and smiled at him.

"Yeah. I would."

--

Inspired by my proofing of _Pit_ earlier today (or, during current times, back in May went I wrote this I was proofing _Pit;_ yes, this is a direct copy/paste from Yard to here):

" He remembered one of his own sick-day experiences in which he had opened his door to find Zack and Hodgins bearing small Tupperware boxes of soup and cookies, as well as a doodle from Angela. It continued the illusion of a second family, as dysfunctional and offbeat as it was. "

--


	70. Food

Silly one...

--

Food

--

The Diner was in the throes of an argument that threatened to split the table asunder. New arrivals to the restaurant avoided the booth and sat as close to the ends of the room as possible; the ones who had been there when the argument started had quickly finished up what they had, refused dessert, and then left to the warm and semi-humid DC night, leaving the sounds of bickering behind.

It had started innocently enough.

"So," Booth had said, "What d'ya guys want to order?"

The group of starving squints had said nothing for approximately three seconds, and then they had all spoken at once.

"I want a burger," Zack said.

"Mad cow!" Hodgins replied as Cam said she wanted a steak and Brennan had said, "Growth hormones" before saying approvingly, "I'm going to have a salad."

Cam had replied, "Pesticides," with the smuggest of looks.

Pathologist and anthropologist glared at each other and then launched into an argument about what was worse.

Meanwhile, Zack and Hodgins were going at it. Zack wanted his burger, Hodgins wanted his poultry. For his every "mad cow" Zack had a "bird flu" and so they went on and on.

Booth, who also wanted a burger, joined the debate, and then Cam had heard and called him a beefcake and then Zack and Brennan didn't know what that meant, so she told them, grinning all the while as Booth's face flushed and then they started yelling at each other because beefcake was apparently low on the list of jeers they had for each other while Brennan and Hodgins started arguing about antibiotics and insecticides. Then Zack changed his mind and said he wanted fish and Brennan and Hodgins said at the same time, "Heavy metal poisoning."

And then they started arguing again, the three of them this time.

"Fine! I'll just order a plate of frigging eggs!" Booth announced and then four squints had made eye contact and said, almost simultaneously, "Salmonella."

He groaned.

And then Zack mentioned his fish again and Brennan and Hodgins renewed their debate. Booth was glaring at Cam and muttering that he was sure one of them had planned this and she told him it was more likely _he_ had planned it just to screw with them and then he told her he hoped she got mad cow and she answered that she looked forward to his salmonella. He told her he really didn't want eggs; she told him she didn't really want the steak but would order it anyway and jam it in his mouth.

Meanwhile, Hodgins was on a roll and claiming that the government had secretly known the levels of toxins in fish were almost near lethal but kept it covered up because he had once done some sort of lab experiment in his office, late at night when nobody was around, and then proven it. Brennan had asked him for proof; Hodgins said something conspiratorial, and then mentor and student had shared an orbital roll which set of Hodgins again, who attacked Brennan's salad, and she rushed in to meet the attack with sword drawn.

Cam, having recently ended a threat that involved jamming napkins in their agent's mouth, overheard the argument about the lettuce and proceeded to gang up on Brennan, who was quickly defended by Zack, and then Booth rolled in and defended neither because he still wanted a burger.

And off to the left, at the end of the table, Angela sat drawing a sketch of the whole thing in cartoon terms, though she exaggerated slightly because in this drawing Cam and Booth were throwing things at each other and Brennan was screaming at Hodgins and Zack was in the middle and trying to argue with both of them. As violence erupted around her, she took out colored pencils and began to flesh out the squints in the drawing, and when she was done doing that she signed her name and titled it and folded the paper up carefully and slipped it into her purse.

By then a lull in the conversation had finally formed, and squints on opposite sides of the table were glaring at each other with pursed lips and crossed arms. Someone's stomach growled. No one moved.

Angela, smiling cheerily, flagged a waitress, who walked over as if she expected the floor would to explode if she stepped wrong.

"As you guys have ruled out virtually everything and anything we may have ordered tonight," the artist said, gesturing encouragingly toward the waitress, who's name was apparently Kathleen, "That only leaves one option."

Everyone stared at her.

"We'll take six bowls of ice-cream," Angela continued, smiling at Kathleen. "And six chocolate truffles. They are apparently not on the black-list."

The waitress nodded and quickly scurried away and behind the counter, where she was quickly enveloped in the hushed questionings of her colleagues.

"And, Bren," Angela said next, glancing at her friend, who's mouth was already open, "Say one thing bad about chocolate or ice-cream, and you will be purchasing enough for both me and you for the rest of the year." She glanced around, "If anyone _else_ says anything about ice-cream or chocolate, he or she will lose his or her tongue."

Silence.

"Good," she said approvingly. "After all, 'stressed' is 'desserts' spelled backward."

Continued silence. No one had a response to either that or her threats, and it stayed that way until their sugary sweets were set before them and after they had been finished, and conversation turned friendly instead of hostile. Angela's genius was secretly commended by all.

Booth, however, was still not allowed his pie, despite any protests he had to offer.

--


	71. Abandoned

--

Abandoned

--

The lab air was still reeling from the departure of the three lab women who had, in the words of Angela, left to go "stare at the ocean, get a tan, and check out the local population of cabana boys." Even Brennan had gone with a smile, and it had taken almost no convincing on the two other women's parts to get her to go, a gesture which, in and of itself, could leave the lab in shock.

Their offices were locked up and dark, the forensic platform did not have the usual sounds of one of them making wry comments, observations, or giving orders, and the three women's respective partners were now standing around each other, looking at each other, at a total loss of what to do. They had been utterly banned from the idea of joining the women on their trip, and thus they were stuck here. Together.

"Why are you here, Booth?" Hodgins asked the obvious question.

"Cullen decided that since Bones, you know, left, I should take the opportunity to be on vacation," the agent replied, staring vacantly at the platform above the entomologist's head. He was wearing jeans, a white polo shirt, and no jacket.

"I see," Zack said.

"Yeah..." his voice trailed off.

Hodgins looked down at what was occupying his time—paperwork for the soil samples he had been working with from the Archeology Department. He was about ready to shove probes into his eyeballs, and this was just day three of the great Female Escapade Out of the Lab. The sole call he had received from Angela had been picked up by his machine, and in it she had told him that they were likely to be gone for at least two weeks, though if Brennan decided she was up for longer, that could be extended to anywhere from three to four.

Four weeks without Brennan and Booth bickering as they walked around the lab. Four weeks without Angela. Four weeks without any sarcasm from Cam or orders from any of the three of them. Four weeks without a case.

Four weeks of soil samples from the Archeology Department.

Those probes were becoming more attractive by the microsecond.

Booth had shown up around five o'clock, drifting into the lab like a lost puppy, and he had looked around absently before going up to the lounge and staying there for about an hour. Now he was back down here, and had wandered to Hodgins' station before stopping, slinging his arms over the cubicle, and staring vacantly into nothing.

Zack had been in Limbo for the past few days, but he had been coming up before it got too dark because his only source of a ride was Hodgins, and there was no chance of companionship from his mentor since she was somewhere in the Caribbean and nobody else liked to be down there for such an extended period of time without the assurance of double compensation.

So the men had all come together, congealing like spilled coffee onto a paper, and the boredom that stretched between them was so palpable he was sure the compression strength would snap their bones like twigs.

"Maybe we could take a vacation," Zack said hopefully after a few beats had passed. "I know I have accrued vacation time."

Booth turned to stare blankly at him, and Hodgins could almost_ hear_ him thinking that spending upwards of a week in a hotel with Zack would be akin to requesting a dinner seat in Hell, let alone four weeks.

But, instead, the agent said, "I only have about two weeks of vacation time."

"That sucks," Hodgins said.

"And Parker should be coming to my house this weekend."

"I guess no then," the new doctor sighed and sat down on a stool.

"What do you think the likelihood is of us getting a case within the next four weeks?" Hodgins asked.

"I think Bones would sooner decide that, you know, roller coasters are prime pieces of real estate then let us work a case without her."

"This is true," Zack said. "Speaking directly to the analogy that Dr. Brennan would not be pleased at all."

"Understatement," her partner muttered.

"And Cam would fillet us," Hodgins added. "No way would she leave it to us without supervision."

"Mm," Zack grunted.

Nods all around.

"So what do we do?" Zack asked after another beat.

"Maybe we should go find what island they went to and bring them back," Hodgins suggested.

"_We_ would end up bones in Limbo if we did that," Booth shot it down.

"At least we wouldn't be bored."

"Mm."

"Though Angela threatened me with an extremely painful death if we did anything to disturb them."

"And Bones would probably take a lot of pleasure in it too..." he muttered. "Bet Cam would fry up our intestines and feed them to sharks."

"That would be extremely unpleasant." Zack.

More nods of agreement.

"So we can't take a vacation, work a case, or contact them in any way," Booth summed up.

"Sucks," Hodgins said again.

"Is it impossible for us to do something without them or work?" Zack asked. "Surely we can think of something."

"Like what?" Booth.

"Could blow something up," Hodgins.

"I know some good chemical combinations," Zack agreed.

"I don't want to do something that may cause us to lose an eye...or an arm," Booth.

"Well, what fun would it be if there wasn't some risk?" Hodgins asked grumpily.

The agent didn't reply.

"And, besides, if we blew off a limb, it may convince them to come back early and coddle us."

"Hmpf," he scoffed, "A popsicle's got a better shot in hell than Bones or Cam coddling us."

"What about Angela?" Zack.

Agent and entomologist exchanged a look. The thought of the artist, having been pulled away from her vacation and various forms of sight-seeing because of an act of stupidity, was almost enough to cause fear to chill their hearts. Even Brennan couldn't rival the wrath of Angela, because the anthropologist wouldn't hold grudges, while Angela would remember it until the day she died.

"So...we can't do that," Hodgins said finally and slumped onto his stool.

He did have the occasionally rowdy friend, but since he had started working here his party-boy nature had faded and now, almost five years later, the thought of frat parties and drunken acts of idiocy were no longer particularly appealing. Angela would tease he was growing up, but then again their tumble-into-the-haystack relationship wasn't all that mature either. He was slowly marching toward forty, and his idea of entertainment was no longer getting plastered in a nameless bar with a bunch of faceless people.

His companions all looked equally at loss. Zack, he knew, had a personal life that mostly revolved around the Jeffersonian, though he did have the occasional date or dinner with someone—often because of his innocent charm. The rest of the time he either spent with Hodgins or in the "room" above the entomologist's garage, generally sleeping. His family was in Michigan, and though he received probably at least one call a day from somebody over there, for the most part he was isolated.

Now, Booth—Booth was just weird. Women probably hit on him all the time, but from his demeanor it would seem that his bedroom was empty most nights, and his last fling had been with Cam. One would think he had crazy frat party friends or bar buddies from sports nights, but obviously not since he was hanging out here, in a place he claimed he hated.

Silence spread between them. They were three people brought together by three women for close to three years, who had suddenly all decided to leave at once. It wasn't fair. It wasn't as if _they_ had anything in common. Right?

"This is stupid," Booth said finally.

"Yeah," Hodgins agreed.

"It is?" Zack said.

"Yeah," the agent continued. "Really stupid."

"Can you just imagine how much Angela would be mocking me right now if she knew we were all together because we were bored?" Hodgins.

"Yeah," he ran a hand through his hair, "And Bones would accuse me of missing her."

"Why?" Zack asked another question. "I mean, it's pretty obvious we do."

He shifted uncomfortably, "Well, I kind of bugged her a while ago about missing me, so she would rub it in my face."

"Oh."

"And then Cam would give me that look," he shifted again. "And say something like 'Oh, Seeley, you _do_ care.' " He brought his voice up in a mocking female voice inflection.

"And if she heard that she would be smacking you over the head," Hodgins said.

"Yeah. Or feeding me liver."

Zack opened his mouth.

"Long running threat."

He closed it.

Booth leaned back onto one of the silver cubicles, "Wonder what Bones is doing over there in the Caribbean?" he muttered to himself.

"Maybe she found Jack Sparrow," Hodgins joked.

"He's a fictitious character," Zack said, "Though I don't imagine Dr. Brennan would object to the rum and the sea faring."

"Why?"

"Dr. Brennan once told me a story about a boat trip she had to take to get to New Guinea for her cultural anthropology master's research. Apparently she spent four days drinking alcohol and making raunchy jokes."

"Really?" Booth said, and he was twirling two gold die between his fingers.

"Yes," he nodded, "She said it was an opportunity to be someone else for a few days, and she enjoyed it immensely."

Hodgins had the feeling he wasn't the only one who would want to witness such a shift in Brennan's personality.

"What about Dr. Saroyan?" the new doctor asked. "What do you think she's doing?"

Booth chuckled, "If I know Cam, she's playing some dope for all his money, taking him to a bar so he can pay for her drinks, and then taking him back to her hotel room."

"That how you met?" Hodgins deadpanned.

"Ha. No. We met at _work_."

"Mm," he snorted.

"Though..." his voice trailed off and he shifted again, his die traveling very quickly between his fingers. "The only time we played poker she cleaned me out."

He laughed outright, "That why you had to quit gambling?"

He glared at him.

"Hey," the entomologist held up his hands. "Just joking. It's what friends do."

"Friends?"

"Yeah. Come on, Booth, we're three guys, alone in a lab, free from the judgment of women. We're friends. Just really weird ones."

"We are?" Zack asked.

"Of course. Now, we have nothing to _do_ together, but we're still friends."

"I see."

Booth leaned back, "What about Angela? Think she's having fun?"

"Yeah," Hodgins said. "She made sure to tell me before she left that she wouldn't sleep with anyone, but I'm sure she's still getting all of her drinks paid for by somebody else."

"Man," he whistled. "Feel sorry for all those dopes that don't realize she's just got 'em under her spell."

Pause. They stared awkwardly at each other.

"We're not dopes, right?" the agent asked.

"No. 'Course not, man," Hodgins replied.

Zack was nodding, "I've been called a dope."

Two groans.

"Come on, Zack, you really think you're a dope?" Booth asked.

"I'm not sure," his eyebrows crinkled together. "I don't know what a dope is."

Agent and entomologist exchanged glances. They weren't going to comment on that.

"You're not a dope," Hodgins assured him. "None of us are dopes."

"No," Booth said.

"We're just workaholics."

"Yeah!"

"Who have been abandoned by our work partners!"

"Yes!" Zack agreed. He was getting excited by the new tone to their voices.

"So that means we have to band together to survive this possible four weeks without them, like a group of mag—"

"No bug metaphors, please, Hodgins," Booth cut in.

"Right. Right," he paused to reform. "And this means only one thing."

"Beer and bad music?" Booth asked.

"You got it."

The soil samples from Archeology took all of two minutes to pack up, and then the three friends-without-partners left the lab together in the general direction of the nearest bar.

Booth drove.

--


	72. Triangle

First of three Fairway Themes.

--

Triangle

--

He sighed and leaned back into his large leather chair, still rubbing the stain on the side of his suit. The fabric was soft under his fingers, but the dark spot was stubborn, and he couldn't get it off. Scowling, he muttered an oath and then dropped his cloth onto his desk and laid his hands on his blotter.

He was getting the feeling that his employees were starting to take him for a fool. He already knew one of them did—had for a while—but out of mutual respect they had formed a rough sort of alliance. Now, it would seem, he was testing that alliance.

He began drawing triangles on a notepad, and their straight lines connected to form diamonds and pentagons and stars and other such things. No one ever thought of him as the type to have nervous habits, and it wasn't a nervous habit really, it was just something he'd do when he was thinking. Administrative duties called, but he had just finished his lunch and was simply digesting now. Digesting and plotting.

He began making the triangles into coherent objects, turning them slowly into drawings. He enjoyed sketching. Helped to alleviate the tedium of office life.

Dr. Hodgins was not the source of his problems. He was just an outgrowth of his problem. The entomologist had no spine—he just talked and acted rashly when he was assured of protection. He was more willing to stick his neck out than Mr. Addy, true, but without a strong leader he was benign.

No. His issue was Dr. Brennan.

They respected each other. That was the only option when it came to the doctor—because if she didn't respect you, she wouldn't listen to a word that came out of your mouth. She didn't listen even if she _did_ respect you, oftentimes, but there was a chance she'd take your words into consideration. And they liked each other, and she certainly didn't take him for a fool—though she considered him to be slightly less intelligent than she was, or perhaps she thought of him as a worthy adversary in a game of wits that she had every intention of winning. Either way, neither his opinion nor his orders ran supreme to her, and she was virtually impossible to control.

Her loyalties lied with her friends, her co-workers, who were essentially her family. She stood over them and protected them from any person who threatened either their positions or their comfort. It was well known that Dr. Brennan did not and would not tolerate the idea of any of her brood leaving the nest unless it was of his or her own accord, and she would willingly take the punishment for one of their errors if it meant that they would be off the hook. In her mind, _she_ was the only person in the medico-legal lab with the authority to reprimand one of her ducklings, and he was her boss, and thus their boss, in name only.

And, besides, she meant well. Her only mistake was not understanding priorities when it came to government funded and operated facilities. Geopolitics, _then_ murder. That's how the system worked. If he confronted her, she wouldn't deny it—and he sensed that earlier she was about to tell him when her flock had stopped her from speaking—and if she didn't deny it and he didn't do anything to punish her, all of his authority would be lost. But punishing for what she perceived were better and more honest intentions would likely only seed resentment, or cause her to redouble her efforts at secrecy should this sort of thing ever arise again.

This time, she had decided to allow Dr. Hodgins to keep their actions secret. If Dr. Brennan were moved to handle deception the next time, he would likely never even know about it for, despite what she claimed, she was a good liar, just as she was good at anything she was determined to do. And this wouldn't be an issue, but then Dr. Hodgins would get out of hand, and disaster would inevitably ensue.

So how to nip this problem in the bud before it got out of hand?

Scare the entomologist while the anthropologist was away.

The channel of power went from Dr. Hodgins to Dr. Brennan to himself, and tended to loop like that. When the anthropologist left, the entomologist began to get out of line, for he was not being regulated by his protector but he believed he could get away with the same thing. Thus, the situation such as the one when Dr. Brennan had left for LA had arisen. It had come to verbal blows, and thankfully they had resolved the issue, but this time he was covering for her and he had done a decidedly poor job in doing so.

Thus the stain on his coat.

He scoffed as he got up, leaving his drawings on his desk.

Chainsaw and jigsaw cuts? Frozen pigs and woodchippers?

Dr. Brennan really should rethink her ideas on who should lie for her in the future.

--


	73. Standing Still

--

Standing Still

--

Security passed him through with a few quiet words. Nobody searched him or asked for his ID twice, because this time he was not coming to surprise or question but to see and maybe have some closure. He was directed to the first door on the left upon entering, a door he had passed earlier but thought nothing of, even though he'd heard the voices inside and seen the two people there, one of whom he had known was his quarry at the time. And when he entered she was there just like before, and amidst the buzzing of the air conditioner and the glowing lights she was snapping on gloves and watching him quietly. He walked to the table she stood over and stared at its contents.

"This is all of him?" he asked.

"Yes," she extended the final letter, and it hissed between her teeth as latex stretched over her fingers. He looked up at her and then she met his eyes, "I mean," inhale, "it's all of somebody."

He looked down again, "He was a big man, my dad." He paused, "It's hard to believe this all that's left of him." Her hand entered his line of vision as she adjusted one of the things on the table, "How can you get anything from three small bits of bone?"

"It's more than a lot of people get," she said.

He smiled, but he wasn't particularly amused, and he remembered things, his gaze flickering between her and what was left of his father, his eyes itching, and when he talked she listened, breaking eye contact only once, because she knew what he was talking about. When he finished, she was still watching him, her lips sealed together, both hands splayed on a table for the dead. He felt sorry for her.

"I have a good timeline," he said, "and I have three small bits of bone. You don't have any of those things, and I realize how hopeless you must feel."

She lowered her eyes. The lightning here was hard on her, and she looked tired. Between them stood their connection, and for them time stood still, and the pursuit of answers were the only solace for old memories. He wanted to tell her he understood, but he knew that wasn't what she wanted.

"Come with me," she said and her eyes were down again as she walked away. He didn't watch her go, and looked at the table until he followed. People like them didn't have the time to stand still for too long before they were moving again, constantly searching but never finding.

--


	74. Fortitude

Just a reminder--last three Themes were from season one "Man on the Fairway." If you don't remember it, you should go watch it and then read these Themes.

Also, I'm not proofing anything. Direct-from-Yard copy/pastes and I know some of them contain typos. My apologies.

--

Fortitude

--

She stands in the doorway, and this is the second time she has walked here with the same thoughts on her mind in the past two days. The person she has come to talk to is packing up his clothing, and when he looks up he greets her but continues his packing, and when she tells him that they've solved the case his eyes are hopeful but she can only tell him she's sorry that a dead man isn't his father. When she tells him who it is he only nods and looks disappointed, and she can only say she's sorry again.

"How do you live with it?" he asks and walks forward, and she responds to his prompt even though she doesn't really want to talk about it.

"The fact that nobody's looking," he says.

She says, "I never thought about it that way until I met you" and they smile at each other, not because they're amused but because neither of them have gotten their answer even though they're both searching in their own way. She tells him her method, he tells her he couldn't live that way, and she nods and looks down and he closes the distance and wraps her in a loose sort of embrace.

His voice is in her ear, "Even if you don't believe it, I know your parents are somewhere proud of what you do" and she replies, "It's not rational, but I love the thought of that," and it's the truth, even if she doesn't believe it.

They fall silent, and when the separate they can only look at each other with the sort of understanding that comes only between people like them. They part with a simple goodbye, and as she leaves she hopes he'll get his answer, because then at least one of them wouldn't be alone.

--


	75. Stars

In Glowing Bones (S2), Brennan (or rather Zack) brings up Waitomo Cave, which Brennan says she's visited. _I_ have never visited it, or even been out of the "grand" US of A, thus I just made up what I think one would see based off of some heavy Googling, a visit to its official website, and _Planet Earth. _Mix that with a little anthropology, thow in my style, and you get this...

--

Stars

--

Water laps at the foot of the old boat, and its occupants rock gently. A man's voice drifts over the quiet, and everyone listens and watches and stares. There is no light, save that from above, and the air is cool and cold from heavy moisture. His voice is as captivating as the faux stars above, and as she listens she feels herself rock and leans back into the old wooden boat, staring at the roof of the cave.

Around, no one is talking. It is a private tour, paid for by a museum on the other side of the world, and the scientists here, for once, are not sharing their opinion nor feeling the urge to explain what is going on. They are just watching and breathing and seeing, and their quiet is mixed with a sense of awe even despite their knowledge, because there can be beauty even in the known.

It is a romantic sight, if something can be said to look romantic, and above the worms glow like stars, and she feels as if she is staring into the universe from a boat. Time halts, and all that matters is his voice and the stars and the water, and she feels it is beautiful even if she sees the irony that the glow is all to attract insects to their silken nets, where they would die to be eaten by the worms. It is the irony of this world, and it is appropriate that she feels she is staring into the universe, even as the man and his voice spin tales of creation and local mythology.

Water laps against the old boat, and they rock gently as they leave the cave of faux stars, and she wraps herself tighter into her coat as the man begins a new story in a place lit by torches.

--


	76. Flowers

Breaking my usual denial of S4's existence for a Theme.

--

Flowers

--

The white rose of Shakespeare was the beginning, when it became clear that flirtations had more serious intent and passing glances held more than a smidgen of meaning. It had been broken off for the sake of those who may be affected by a split, but then the metaphorical rose had bloomed again, stained crimson because of fresh memories of the car he had escaped from, and they had spent the night entwined but free of passion, and his fear had dissolved as they both slept.

And it was two years of real passion, of real physical affection, and they both cared but neither wanted to think too hard. It was not a fling, and it was not something that could not sustain. It was happy, it was light, and other people were annoyed by it even though it probably gave them hope that two people could be together without having to be mawkish, and be able to just run on sex and laughing and damn the consequences or those who came between.

Flowers stood on tables, and she would call them beautiful and he would call them corny but sweet and she would agree and then water them carefully before wrapping her arms around him and directing him to the bedroom of whichever house they happened to be in at the time, and then they would spend a few hours commending other sorts of beauty. Then maybe he'd get up and make a waffle or she'd get up and scrabble an egg, and then they'd eat in a bed that smelled like flower petals and perfume, and they would laugh and joke because that was just what they wanted to do.

Things changed around them, and even they changed. He cooled, she became less impulsive. They loved but wanted to commit more, if only just to prove they really loved each other and wanted the fairy tale that was projected upon them and everyone else, and even when their attempt at marriage failed they kept at it because love was in the deionized air, and every time they were together heat rose from the bodies and their hearts picked up their beats until they were inevitably crashing into the walls or onto the floors to release whatever it was that they felt so strongly and so equally.

Passion burned between them, and was the epoxy of it all. They loved each other as much as they loved their bodies, but for whatever reason it failed one day, and they suddenly broke apart without much chance of an immediate healing, and she stared at him from across the table and he stared at her, and it was over and neither really knew why. When either thought back neither knew why, but even after they had slept together again the passion didn't seem to last. Or maybe it did to him, but she felt it was nothing but the remnants of old feelings and simply a way to release themselves from the torture of lonely monogamy.

It was like the flowers on their table, even if the white rose of Shakespeare had died long ago, and he supposed that the only thing to do was to wait, and maybe see if they would bloom again.

--

Okay, folks...I haven't been getting too many reviews recently. One, in fact, over the past two prior to this. I know you guys don't always have something to say, _but_ I'm consistently getting more than one hundred hits per Theme, so I can deduce that, more or less, the same people are reading Theme after Theme.

Yes, I finished these several months ago, but I would still appreciate if some of you would break the habit of lurking, even just once, to leave a review. This Theme or maybe another one you liked. Please? Thanks.

Anyway, I'm heading out of town until Sunday tomorrow, so no Themes for Friday and Saturday unless I get computer access. Just thought I'd let everyone know...


	77. Mother Nature

This was brought up in "Knight" by Brennan...

--

Mother Nature

--

"Can we go yet?"

It was a phrase that had been uttered at least four times during this trip, though this time it was neither a wine nor a beg from one or both young voices; it was from a fully grown and soaking wet man approximately four inches to her right.

Around the little group, human traffic passed by like salmon in a river, only they were traveling in all directions, not just upstream. Despite the rain, people were heading toward other rides and other crowds, and the smell of various wet body products and perfume and sweat and the confectionery sweets on the other side of the street mingled with that of her wet clothing and the stain of a snow cone that had managed to spill all over the right half of her jacket because some idiot had bumped her on her way out the door of a little shop. It smelled like sugar. Her jacket smelled like wet dog.

Nearby the irritatingly cheery music that they had been hearing in some form since entering continued to drone on, and when it looped over she was considering how bad it would be if she took something heavy and bludgeoned the speaker with it.

"Please?"

She looked at her husband.

He was truly soaked from the rain, for her umbrella protected her well enough but he had foregone its protection because he quote "didn't need it and needed to gather the kids anyway." Now he was wet and she was damp and the kids looked as if they had fallen into a swimming pool or something and when she looked at him she couldn't help but smirk because he was scowling so deeply, and his frustration was so evident, it seemed to make their situation slightly more amusing to her.

She glanced around him at their charges.

Russel was buried inside a bright yellow raincoat that had originally been his father's, but since he had insisted earlier that he would not need a jacket, he had been given that one as a replacement. He was almost literally swimming in it, and the crook of his nose was basically all she could see of his face through the shadow made by the hood. Occasionally something brown and thin would poke out as he continued to work on the ice cream they had purchased for him—for apparently the sugar was still just as good even though the weather was absolutely freezing. She didn't know if he was enjoying himself, though she suspected he was.

At his side, Tempe was gripping a vibrant blue dolphin in one hand while the other was somewhere inside the bright yellow rain jacket of her brother. She was swathed in a poncho, her own because she hadn't thought to argue about it in the car, but her sneakers were brown instead of their original greyish-white. Her face was set on neutral but she was staring at her father, who was staring at Ruth, and he was looking desperate.

Ruth, however, saw this as a golden opportunity to screw with her husband, a fun activity because he couldn't get particularly angry in front of his kids or in public, though he would get extremely blustery. Russ and Tempe were mostly oblivious to the weather, and they would be fine as long as they went inside, but Max was being pushed closer and closer to the edge.

"I don't know," she said. "Rain started suddenly. Who's to say Mother Nature won't decide to lighten up by the time we get out of a few of the indoor rides?"

"It won't, Chrissie," he was begging her with his eyes.

She grinned, "Oh, come on, Dear, this is one of those once in a lifetime things. Do you realize this may be the only time we get our ducks lined up well enough to do this?"

He sighed.

"Paid enough for these tickets."

"I'm cold," he complained.

"So am I."

"Wet."

"Ditto."

"Hungry."

"Get a pretzel."

"I don't want a pretzel."

"Then get a hot dog."

From behind him, Russ' ice cream stick kept poking out of the hood's shadow before retracting abruptly again. In. Out. In. Out.

"What if I wanted _real_ food?"

"Then that would require going into the _real_ world and _ordering_ real food."

He opened his mouth.

"And we don't know any of the restaurants around here. We would just be looking blindly."

"How do you know I didn't do any scouting before coming?"

"Dear, you didn't even scout out the park, and that was why we came here."

More scowling.

"Lighten up. We're in _Disneyworld._ Just relax. Or something." The truth was, she was ready to high-tail it out of here too, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

He grunted before turning and kneeling to address his son.

"Would you like to go?"

"No," was the reply.

Pause. Max blinked.

Ruth suppressed a laugh.

The ex con turned to his daughter, who was sucking absently on a plastic spoon, her dolphin now wedged under her elbow, its head resting on her shoulder.

"How about you, honey?"

She removed the spoon—with slight difficulty—and then pointed it at Ruth, "Should ask Mom."

"No, I'm asking you. Would you like to stay here?"

Shrug, "Yeah."

Another pause. Ruth could almost hear the expletive in her husband's head. He reformulated, got up, and turned back to Ruth. She noted that his knees were now dark from contact with the ground.

"Come on, Ruthie," he said in a voice that only she could hear. "My feet are killing me."

"So are mine."

"I can't carry her if she gets tired if we leave later."

"Then I will."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Payback."

"For what?"

She grinned at him, "If I can't question your manly navigational skills—which incidentally got us lost, twice—you cannot question my mothering decisions."

"What? You're letting them decide?"

She shrugged, "We came here for them, Max."

"They don't know what they're thinking. Hand them cotton candy and they're happy. They'd hang in the DMV if there were candies there."

"Well, luckily this is slightly more interesting than the DMV."

He opened his mouth once more, but closed it again. That look of helplessness was back again.

She took pity on him. It was fun to tease him a little, but in truth she was wet and cold and she really couldn't hold this conversation for too long. They were sheltered under a building, but the covering wasn't providing warmth and this was no place to be, realistically.

So she gestured her charges over, who shuffled the few feet in a way that told her exhaustion was already calling to claim them. Or perhaps it was because Russ could barely move in the over-sized raincoat. But Tempe was obviously fading.

"Hey," she bent down a little, just enough so that none of her already damp clothing could touch the wet floor, "how about we find a bakery and get some cookies before heading back to the hotel, hm?"

This drew an enthusiastic "Yeah!" from Russ and a nod, followed by a yawn, from Tempe.

She smiled, "Alright. It's a plan then."

The four left the cover of the building, and Tempe linked hands with Ruth as they went, clinging close to her, and Max leaned toward his wife's ear as they reached the exit gate.

"Thank you," he said.

"Eh, mark it as an exchange," she replied. "You're going to drive me to the bakery and then the hotel without complaint for this."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"I try."

--


	78. Deep in Thought

This is my tag to Verdict (S3). Note: _You will not understand this Theme if you have not seen the episode or do not remember it at all_. Just telling you guys so you aren't confused.

This occurs between the "boogyman" conversation and Brennan's next morning talk with her partner.

--

Deep in Thought

--

The smell of Chinese food is still on the air, kept there not by white cartons but by memory, for the meal had long since ended and she had left the steel and concrete room many hours ago. Stacks of papers lay by her hands and she flips through them, occasionally allowing the pen to slip further down between her fingers so that she can scribble things into the margins of the case reports and old paperwork that she is sorting. A cup of tea sits near the bowl of fruit on her table, and she watches the steam rise before abandoning her paperwork and reaching for it, drinking the bitter liquid and gladly feeling it searing her tongue as it flows down her throat. She doesn't know what to do, and she can't work because she isn't allowed near the evidence, and thus the lab, and she can't talk to her friends because the court has ruled them temporary enemies. She feels alone, and she wraps her afghan tighter around her shoulders before getting up and walking to her couch, where she settles, curling around her tea and the warmth it gave as it presses to her chest and hands.

_Now it's about the story._

And what is this story he is referring to? She is a storyteller herself, has weaved entire plotlines out of this sort of thing, and lives through these moments at least once a month, though they are mirrored in this case, because she is working on a side she'd never thought she'd be on. And to weave a story would require misdirection, and she was no bigger fan of that than she was of outright lying.

_They need a boogyman._

A boogyman. And she had known what to do when Russ had said it, even if the idea makes the blood drain from her face and causes her stomach to lurch violently in a feeling of nervousness she hasn't had in years. That is why she is sitting here like this, and why she has some hope. It seems suicidal but she is willing to do it, to sacrifice both the law and her security to make this work and to keep her newly reformed family together. She'd lost them twice, and if she looses now then there is no real chance to go back to where it is now, and it would be her fault this time and not theirs.

A story, and she is this boogyman and not her father. The woman with the dagger and the accelerant and all the excuses; the woman who murdered a man to protect her family and whose father was caught to assume the blame. She sees herself, backlit by the flames of a dead man, and wonders if, for just a moment, there is any plausibility in such an image. She knows it isn't a real image, that her father is really responsible, but she wonders if anybody will believe it and if she is okay with being seen in such a light if they do.

Her isolation presses on her and she drinks more hot tea before setting the cup on her table with a hand that shakes. Angela and her father are in prison, and it's her fault, and her friend is right, her father's life is really on the line and she is gambling with both their futures. She needs to talk to someone, because for once she needs direction, and she doesn't know what to do.

Her hand slips over her phone and she squeezes it tightly as she picks it up to stare at it, and then she is punching the numbers and hearing it ring.

There is only so much that thought can achieve, and she needs an additional opinion. Some validation, as it were, to tempt fate—even if she doesn't really believe in such an idea.

--

There is another Verdict Theme, however, I am not posting it right after this one because I wrote it way after posting this one on the Yard and I don't want to try to find it. :P Apologies.

Review on your way out...


	79. Test

My version of how Angela came to be employed at the Jeffersonian.

It's lengthy and broken up into two parts.

--

Test

--

_CRASH!_

Brennan opened heavy lids, blinking twice before the pain in her neck and shoulders registered. Wincing, she sat up from her couch, her hand traveling to her sore muscles and kneading away at the tightness. It only hurt worse and she groaned and sank back into the cushions, socking her pillow into a more comfortable position first. Her eyes closed.

Muffled shouts drifted in from beyond the door and her neck pain appeared to be spreading in every direction, agitating her poor shoulders even more and causing prickles and jabs in her lower back and crown. It was clear within a few minutes of lying there that sleep was no longer a viable option and she muttered a foul curse under her breath before rolling off the couch, her socked feet touching her rug before she rolled off and onto the floor. Kneeling there, she considered the possibility of sleeping here, for the flat surface wouldn't bother her spine nearly as much and it didn't smell.

It was certainly tempting, but she decided against it and then rose, pursing her lips as her knees popped.

She was too young to be having all of these damned problems.

Sighing, she padded to her shaded windows, wondering what was causing all of the commotion. This wasn't exactly the first time she had slept in her office, or in a lab for that matter, so she knew that it should still be relatively silent at six in the morning. Something must be going on.

She pulled back the blinds just enough to allow her to see out the window and her eyes widened. What the hell was this?

Allowing the fabric to fall back into place, she padded to her shoes, slipped them on, and grabbed for her lab coat. The familiar scent of generic detergent filled her nose and she felt more awake as she clipped her card to her pocket and then finger-combed her hair, using her reflection on her desk as a guide. No make-up, no mints, but she'd be able to pull off looking awake as long as no one kissed her.

Fat chance of that happening.

With that thought in mind, she slipped out of her office and stood in the shadows of the wooden staircase leading up to the lounge. There was no way to get to the entrance of the lab from here without going outside and walking around, and her desire to look like someone who hadn't stayed up the whole night working didn't override her current muscle pain. And the guards would probably have guessed it too, as she only shut her blinds when she planned on sleeping or was feeling particularly private.

Screw it.

She walked out, thinking that at least the sharp rapping of her heels on the floor sounded professional, though another _crash!_ from ahead told her that the possibility of them hearing her was slight. Regarding the construction workers with wary eyes, she stole closer to what had once been a small office and a storage closet. A few days ago work had been started, and it seemed to have been going on virtually the entirety of that time, hardly a break of over an hour having been taken in between. Tonight, however, she had been trying to sleep through it, and though it had been loud, it had never occurred to her that when she walked back out today that it would look quite like...this.

One whole section of the wall was gone, and inside the ceiling was opened up, wires, like guts, spilling down. A few of the men were dragging large boxes inside through the destroyed wall, and Brennan felt herself bristle despite the fact that she had only been in the lab herself for a little less than a year. It bothered her to see this section—which was so close to the entrance—looking so utterly in shambles. The musty smell of opened-up wall was in the air, and the floor was covered in a fine film of dust and debris, and she wrinkled her nose and walked a little closer.

"Right there," a voice instructed. "Right there's good, Paul."

A grunt, then _plop!_

"More carefully!" the voice protested.

"It's heavy, Miss."

"Angela, honey, how many times do I have to tell you?"

"Angela," the male voice—Paul—replied. "Alright."

A man with a heavy tool-belt and an already sweaty shirt tromped out of the ruins of the office and stepped out of the exit, gesturing to the rest of the men as he went, who followed him.

Brennan took the opportunity to slip into the office and look around. The female voice from before, this Angela person, wasn't here, and that was all the better. She went immediately to the stack of boxes and, glancing around first, began to examine the contents.

Wires and electrical equipment met her eyes. She saw a few computers, monitors, but the rest all appeared to be electrical things of some sort. She rolled back onto the balls of her feet and stared, wondering what they could possibly be for. Looking around a little more, she noticed that the hole in the ceiling paralleled a hole in the floor, and wires were sticking out from both places as well. Her eyebrows scrunched together, but she decided not to ponder it as a stack of rectangular things against a far wall caught her eye.

Walking to them, she pulled one of them back so she could get a look at it. It was a painting of some sort, and she pulled it back further, trying to get a better view. It appeared to be the crucifixion, albeit one with a very high artistic license. Her first thought was that it was a good use of color; her second was that the arms were extraordinarily long.

She was reaching for the next one when a voice from behind said, "Hello?"

Jumping, she whirled, aware that she probably looked guilty as hell but only able to compute the defense 'I was curious.'

A relatively tall woman stood there, almost her height but probably a little shorter, though she was also wearing heels, so it was hard to tell. She was smiling, though in a way that wasn't one hundred percent friendly, and her eyebrows were elevated slightly, her arms wrapped around her body. Heavy-looking bracelets adorned her wrists, and a long necklace trailed from her neck.

Brennan suddenly felt exposed, for not only was she not wearing make-up or her jewelry, but this woman—presumably Angela—was silently raking her eyes over her figure, and she could see that the other woman was formulating a few opinions behind her brown eyes. It suddenly occurred to the anthropologist that it was a smirk the other woman wore, and she felt herself bristle. This was _her_ lab after all.

Conveniently forgetting Goodman, of course.

"Hello," she replied finally.

The woman's eyes rose and she was still smirking when she said, "Can I help you?"

She said the first thing that sprang to her lips, "Who are you?"

Her smile widened a little and she snorted. "Angela Montenegro."

She nodded.

"And you are?"

"Temperance Brennan."

"Ah, I know you," she held out a hand, which Brennan took. They shook and Angela's clasp was strong but warm.

"You do?" the anthropologist said.

"Yes. Daniel Goodman described you as the informal head of forensics."

"There is no forensics department, specifically," she replied. "We all just loosely work together."

She shrugged, "Hey, sweetie, that's what that hunk of a man up there told me."

Brennan's eyebrows shot up.

"Oh, come on, honey, he is _hot_. Shame he's married. They're always married."

"What?" Now her eyebrows were scrunched down again and the feeling of confusion was beginning to overtake her.

"Nevermind." She shook her head. "Don't get out much, do you? I can already tell."

Brennan simply stared at her.

She sighed. "Nevermind, nevermind."

She decided to change the subject, "Who are you?"

"Have you forgotten my name already?"

"No. I mean, why are you here? Who are you? Why haven't I heard about you?"

"Oh, hm," she plopped down onto a couch that had been shoved against a wall. "I don't know why you didn't hear about me, but I was given the green light about a week ago. I'm an artist."

"A forensic artist?" It was starting to dawn on her. She had made a request for an artist two months ago, for her victims needed faces that she was unable to provide them. She had assumed _she_ would be doing the interviewing, but apparently Goodman had thought otherwise.

"Well," Angela replied. "I wasn't originally, just recently got a license actually, but I've been drawing since I was five."

Oh, god, Goodman had hired someone who had never been in a lab before.

See, this was why archaeologists needed to stay out of her decision-making. They tried to take control out in the field, and now this one was hiring people with neither her consent nor her approval.

She gritted her teeth.

Angela appeared to notice, "Hey, sweetie, it's fine. I _am_ trained in this stuff."

Stuff? Oh, god.

Her panic level was starting to rise.

She sighed, "I assume you won't just take what I say on face value?"

"No," Brennan said and shook her head. No way in hell.

Another sigh, "Well, at least you're honest." She rose. "Tell you what? When the Angelator is up and running, you can officially decide whether or not you think I'm worth it."

"Angelator?" she repeated.

"Yes."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"Oh, you'll see," she said and smiled again, quite genuinely and with a great deal of pride. "It's what got me hired after all."

"I see." Her eyebrows were still scrunched together.

"I'm glad. Now," she walked by, and it was amazing how confident her stride was for someone who had just invaded Brennan's space—for _no one_ had done that since she had been a grad student without just the slightest twinge of fear. "I think Paul's got it covered here and I'm feeling hungry for breakfast. Want to join me or were you about ready to go head home?"

"What?" Brennan stared at her.

She turned, "Well, either you've got the world's worst cover-up or you've been here all night. But I can see from the way you're holding yourself that you're tired, so I deduced that it wasn't any beauty product defect."

Brennan continued to stare at her.

"Hey, sweetie, even artists can speak intelligently. So what do you say? Going home or want to go get a pancake?"

She took an almost involuntary step backward. "Um..."

"It's alright," this time, the artist was smiling in a reassuring sort of way. "No offense taken. See you later," she waved and then stepped over a box on her way out of the ruined wall, disappearing in moments.

Brennan blinked, still staring at the space Angela had occupied seconds before. She had never been called 'sweetie' before, except by a librarian when she was ten, and not once had the word 'doctor' edged itself into the conversation. No fear, no signs of respect, no apologizes for invading, no argument starting or turf wars. Even _Hodgins_ had started a turf war when she had shown up.

And no one ever made mention of her working late, even if they obviously knew it. Only Michael had ever been allowed to tease her about it, but then she was returning to their shared bed and usually waking him up—if he hadn't stayed up with her himself.

All of this was unsettling. Who was this woman?

She took an impulsive step forward, and then another.

She was curious now. This wasn't an academic, that much was for sure, and she seemed comfortable in this obviously foreign environment. And she was a forensic artist. An _artist_. The last one she had worked with took the skulls with a business-like demeanor, sent the sketch like a memo a while later with its paperwork attached, and was otherwise never seen. This one was _cheery._

Yes. She was very curious.

She trotted over to the ruined wall and hopped over the box in her way before heading for the exit. The artist was just turning the corner when she caught up to her.

"Changed your mind?" was her only question.

And Brennan nodded and said, "Yes."

--

Test, Part II

--

Golden light flowed from the new machine, and it whirred and buzzed and made soft noises as it powered on. Inside, it was sort of like a glowing, flowing rectangle, with golden flecks floating around to form the walls and insides.

Two days had passed since Angela had first appeared in the Jeffersonian, and she had called Brennan and Hodgins to her new office to take a look.

"And this, lady and gentleman," the artist said, smiling and manipulating some sort of electrical tablet. "is why I was hired."

A shape of light gold appeared in the rectangle, floating and spinning as it formed.

"I decided to make a little animation," she continued. "Usually you'd just have the image appear, but I figure this one should be more grand."

Brennan stared at the image of the skull that floated there, glancing back at the real one, which sat on the artist's desk, covered with those little marshmallow-like foam cylinders that marked tissue depth. She had never seen anything like this—not in college, not in her visits to academic institutions, and not in any lab. Her eyes were wide, and she knew her mouth was probably open—as was Hodgins', who stood beside her with a look of awe.

Angela smiled. "Nice, huh?"

The anthropologist's eyes were glued to the skull as the first layer of flesh appeared on it, cartilage and muscle tissue blooming outward in a sort of reverse-decomposition. "How?" she asked, her voice low and breathless.

"I had a boyfriend in Italy...Another one in Greece. There were a few here too. Anyway, I called them all up, got them all together, and I told them what I wanted."

Hodgins stared at her.

"I poured my savings into it, got my father to toss me a few bucks, and we spent three years on this."

"How did you know what to do?" the entomologist asked.

She shrugged, "I've taken art classes all over the world; engineering as well. I like to make things, and I've been into computers since they were first available to me. I'm not a scientist, but I know a lot of them."

Brennan was still staring at the skull, which was now a face, and felt hope bloom in her chest. With this sort of technology, a visual ID would never be impossible.

"Where did you come from?" she asked. "What made you come here?"

Another shrug. "I realized this sort of thing would have potential to help law enforcement. It was designed to input scenarios and display them. Very helpful for beginning artists and excellent for displaying 3D graphics. My original hope was to use it to teach people to draw, but, I don't know..." her voice trailed off and Brennan finally gave her more than half an eye's worth of attention. "It felt like it was something I should do."

Brennan didn't really want to know what that meant, didn't really care if it had been a dream or some sort of religious revelation; all she knew was that there was real potential here now.

Hodgins was a genius, a nut of a genius, but a genius nonetheless, and he had three doctorates in three different areas of forensics. Brennan herself also had three doctorates, and though two of them weren't particularly helpful in the lab setting, she was far from a fool and she had a knack with bones. And with Angela here...there was no telling what could be done, what she hadn't shown them yet.

"So there's your victim," the artist said, and she didn't seem to realize the magnitude of her presence. "Of course, I can just do a sketch for a lot of the IDs, but this is way cooler, so..." she laughed. "Occasionally I'll use this."

"What else can it do?" Hodgins asked.

"Lots of stuff. Dr. Brennan didn't give me the COD report, so I couldn't input it, but I could probably come up with something rough if you gave me one."

"What?" Brennan said.

"Well," Angela turned, "This thing does 3D rendering and animation. If you give me a basic idea of how the murder went down, I can reproduce it in here." She patted the side of the machine with a smile.

"Whoa," Hodgins said.

She smiled wider and then clicked something on the tablet she held with some sort of pen. The skull oozed away, and in their stead two people formed—one male and one female—and they twirled about a stage, the woman's dress flowing about her ankles, the man holding a rose in his mouth.

"I was working on this before you gave me the skull," Angela explained. "It's like a moving painting."

Brennan watched the figures move, nodding absently. She doubted she had ever felt more elated and awestruck in her life.

The artist set down the tablet, which Brennan would have been tempted to label "magic" if she had been superstitious, and then walked to her desk—still in shambles from the move—and picked up a computer print-out.

"Here's the face," she said and handed it to Brennan, "If you need anything else, just send it to me and I'll see what I can do. Actually," she paused. "I take that back. Don't send it to me; bring it to me."

At this point, she'd walk over lava to retrieve a pebble if it meant the artist could do something with it, so she nodded and said, "Of course."

Another smile. "So what do you think?"

"About what?" Brennan's eyes were on the dancers again, and she held the print-out loosely.

"Us. The forensic unit you say doesn't exist. My hiring—all that."

"I think Goodman was right," she glanced at her. "He was right to hire you."

"So you're not resentful?"

"Not anymore," she replied truthfully.

"Think you could do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Go out with me this weekend. We can check out the bars and do some scouting."

"What?" Brennan looked at her.

"I don't know DC, you know DC, you can show me around. Plus, it's an excellent opportunity to bond over shots and cute guys." She was smiling.

"What makes you think I know DC?" she asked.

"You've been living here longer than I have. In my book, you know it better than me."

"Well, I think you may be wrong about that."

"Honey," she shifted, "If you know it less than _I_ do, then that just makes it even more clear that we need to go out."

"But..." she glanced at Hodgins, who was snorting into his hand. She glared, he laughed.

"You said anything," Angela pointed out.

"You did," Hodgins agreed.

She pursed her lips. "I'm not so good at the social scene."

"I thought you were an anthropologist," the artist continued. She was determined.

"I am."

"And isn't that all about the social scene?"

"Not exactly." Her eyes were on Hodgins, who was mouthing 'Sorry' to her as he made his way from the office.

"See you!" he called, and then he was gone.

"Come on," Angela walked closer to her and grabbed for the tablet, turning the Angelator off in one swift movement. "I don't know anyone here. I mean, unless you've got other plans, we should go."

Brennan eyed her in the now dark room. No, she didn't have any plans—not with a man and not with anyone else—and, no, she didn't know the local social scene, so it could be potentially beneficial to do a bit of observation, but she was still a little wary. It was simply a setting in which she was uncomfortable.

But Angela's eyes were somewhere between pleading and determined, and she sensed that this would be one of those situations where no matter what she said she'd be overruled.

So, with an exhale, and shifting her weight onto her right foot, she said, "Okay."

"Really?" the artist said, and her smile was now broad. "You'll go?"

"Yes," she nodded.

Angela squealed, "Oh, sweetie, we'll have so much fun! I guarantee it! And I bet we can even find a restaurant to eat at first and then we can go and find some men."

She smiled back, albeit uncomfortably.

Angela patted her shoulder, "Trust me. I think we both need a friend, and there's no reason why we need to spend the weekend alone."

She was surprised, "You think you'd want to be friends with me?"

She was eyed as if she was nuts, "Of course. Do you think you'd want to be friends with me?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I think I would."

"Ditto. So it's a deal then?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly.

"Shake on it."

A hand was held out and she took it.

"It's a deal," Brennan said.

More smiles, and then they went back to work.

--


	80. Spiral

One of two Cam Themes...personal favorite of mine.

--

Spiral

--

It always started out as if it mattered, as if it meant something, even if neither of you really believed it did. This time was slightly different though. She hadn't exactly been too young to know, and he not too inexperienced to care, but when they had first tumbled into bed it had just seemed so right, almost like destiny—be it because of the late hour or the child in the next room.

Late hours turned into early mornings; blood washed off gloved fingers before they were in turn ripped off and tossed in the trash. Doctors fought in the hallways, patients sued for malpractice, the dead were rolled on steel tables into the basement under the hospital. And they would talk with knives in hand, slicing into flesh while arguing about personal matters, and the assistants wouldn't comment, wouldn't listen, but would just continue their work. Even though two years passed, it remained the same.

She had always had the feeling she was simply the replacement, one stop on a long stretch of road that ultimately lead nowhere. The old wife hung over them like a shadow, but neither said her name, and between them a child sat, and she wondered if she would be the one to raise her, or if it would be someone else. He was faithful only to Michelle, and when he came home late she didn't ask him where he'd been because she knew but didn't know what to say. Maybe they'd make love for the night, in a way that was only bitterly reminiscent of old times, or they'd sleep on opposite sides of the bed, and she would stare at the ceiling until she fell asleep. Sometimes they laughed and loved each other, and sometimes they didn't speak, and she would leave for PTA meetings and ballet practice while he went to work on his off-hours or checked into motels. He never settled, he just continued to look, while she sat at home with a child on her lap and a pen in the other as she filled out hospital forms and hummed to his daughter.

And, one day, he proposed to her, and she didn't know why he did it, but she sensed it was because he knew he was losing her, and it was final effort to have her stay. And she smiled and accepted, thinking that maybe he had finally decided she would be the one, and then she had found him outside a motel they wouldn't use in a district they never visited, his shirt half-buttoned and the smell of sex on his body, and she had silently turned around and gone home while his words followed her down the street.

She had left Michelle with one of her only memories from her grandmother, and amidst the balloons from her sixth birthday, the little girl had accepted the small porcelain figurine and she had parted with the almost meaningless phrase "I love you," uttered to both her and the man whom she was leaving.

--


	81. Drowning

Tag for Cell.

--

Drowning

--

It was a second "I love you," and it seemed to mean just as much as it had almost a decade ago. The love was there, as it had been with Andrew, but the words themselves meant nothing, because it was sort of like when people compliment something before following it with the word "but" and then stating all that was wrong or all that they hated or all the needed to be different, needed to change. And when Seeley walked in she had heard the "but" before the "I love you," even though she knew she loved him and that he loved her.

And she was no longer choking on air, no longer drowning on a poison that she had inhaled because of his pressuring, but she was still in that hospital bed and those tubes were still jammed up her nostrils to help her breathe. When he told her what had happened in his partner's apartment she was sympathetic and she saw the pain in his eyes, and read the bitterness there because they both knew that the anthropologist had allowed the serial killer in of her own accord, and he had died off her balcony because he could not be saved. And when he started talking about personal relationships and risks she had listened because she knew he was blaming himself for her near-death, even though she also knew he was blatantly wrong, and when he said "I love you" she had closed her eyes and said "I love you too, Seeley," and then they both knew it was over.

What he was doing was grasping at straws. This was round two of their relationship, and they loved each other, but love wasn't enough to keep them together because they had known each other too long and between them they had enough baggage to stock the Chicago Midway. They were both afraid of the commitment their relationship called for, neither willing to sacrifice their security as they had before. His excuse was that she had almost died, hers was that she had already lost a child. He was fine to blame it on the serial killer, and she was fine to let him.

And when he left he smiled down at her in a bitter sort of way. They were saying goodbye to the late-night flings and the physical connection, even if they would see each other tomorrow and for the days and years that would follow. She loved him, and he loved her, but they were separate again like the pepper shaker that stood on her bedside table. Two parts of a whole that would be rejoined in memory alone.

--


	82. Memory

Not really a tag; more of an omitted scene (a _major_ omitted scene, if I may say so). Early S3, but no specific time.

--

Memory

--

From outside the office, the only sound was the quiet scritching of a pen and the buzzing of lab lights. Most people had already gone home for the night, many of them early since it was a Friday, but she was still here, as she always was.

He walked in slowly, glancing around himself first as if to make sure that they would be alone together, but she didn't notice him even when he entered her line of vision, for she was focused on whatever it was that she was writing. A clipboard was on her lap, and nearby were two books, placed precariously on top of one of her pillows. There were a few highlighted words and paragraphs, and she didn't crane her neck to see them as she scribbled things down. When she reached forward to flip a page, her eyes flicked up and she jumped, inhaling sharply.

"Zack!" she breathed, a hand to her chest.

"I'm sorry if I startled you," he said, taking a step back, and she shook her head and swallowed.

"It's fine." Gesturing him over, she sat up and reached for the cup of coffee on her table. It sat between her jewelry—a silver four-chained necklace, a pair of red-beaded earrings, and a watch. They glittered in his eyes as he sat across from her, and he stared at them for a beat before he met her gaze.

She put down the cup and swallowed. "Can I help you with something?"

He watched her hands. They didn't shake, and when the cup hit the table it was with a hollow _click_.

"I," he started, and her eyes studied him. "I wanted to talk to you."

She waited.

"I mean," he cleared his throat. "It just seems like you could help me...maybe take away the dreams. The doctor said I don't have PTSD, but he said I should see a therapist, and I didn't want to see a therapist because I think you're right and they're useless but I know I should talk to someone about it and I know you'd understand better than anyone I know, so I..." his voice trailed off and he inhaled, "I was wondering if we could talk."

Her eyes softened, "Is this about Iraq?"

He nodded and closed his eyes, feeling tears burn his corneas. He had never cried in front of her before, and he felt a whoosh of air as she appeared by his side, and when he opened his eyes she was there and her hand was on his own.

"Here," she said and pulled something from her jean pocket, handing it to him as she pulled another chair closer to his own with her foot, keeping her hand on his. It was a peacock blue kerchief, and he wiped his eyes with it before attempting to hand it back to her, and she shook her head so he kept it.

"I didn't think it would be any different," he said, "You've taken me to war zones and mass graves. And I remembered all of your advice, but..." his voice trailed off again. "It was different."

She nodded, and he didn't say anything more so she prompted, "Do you want to tell me what you saw?"

"Does it help to say?"

She shrugged, "I don't know. My first time I had Michael, but my first time alone I didn't have anyone to talk to."

"Did it bother you?" he asked.

"It's with me every day," she placed her hand over her heart and her eyes grew hollow for a moment before refocusing on him. She swallowed.

"Do you wish you had talked about it?"

Another shrug and she smiled sadly, "I never talk about anything."

He glanced down. His mentor was now his colleague, but he admired her like a teacher, and they rarely talked face-to-face without a skeleton in between them for distraction. It was late on a Friday night and there was no distraction, and they were both tired and he was afraid to sleep. He wanted to talk to her because he knew she'd understand, so he opened his mouth.

"They weren't soldiers," he said. "I didn't find a single gun or a weapon. They were..." he exhale, "just people. Lots of people who just died. It was like Guatemala again, but you weren't there and there were only soldiers and they wouldn't talk to me. I felt so alone, Dr. Brennan."

She squeezed his hand, and he placed his other palm over her own.

"There were children and women and old men," he went on. "When I gave them the reports they just recorded it but I never found out their names and they weren't buried by their family. When I asked what to do they told me to just keep doing what I was doing but it wasn't right. I know you told me that priorities would be different, but I also know you said that identity was the most important thing, and that we should always try to give names and faces if we were out there, because that was our responsibility.

"When I told them that they said that only the living mattered here, and the government didn't care about their names, just their statistics. They said I didn't belong here. And I heard the bodyguards talking about me..." he stopped, "They didn't think I belonged there either.

"The army psychiatrist said I should question whether the only place I belong is here, but I couldn't belong there either. And even though they were skeletons like here, it was..." he didn't know what it was, "it was different."

He stopped. He didn't know why he'd said what he'd said, it had just poured out of him, and she was looking at him with sadness in her eyes, and he wished he hadn't come to begin with.

"Zack," she said, her voice quiet, "you don't belong at war and you don't belong among soldiers. Finding a place where you can just _be_, that's where you should be."

"Have you found that place, Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes," she nodded. "My place is here." She smiled a little, but it quickly left her features. "It's always hard, Zack, and it's hard every day. We don't do this because it's fun; we do it because it must be done. But we share in the burden of every life and death we hold in our hands, and it's all we can do to retain our sanity."

It was her turn to stop, and he remembered this was what she had told him the first time they had worked a case together. She had said that it was because he cared that he belonged here, but that it was also the reason he would have trouble.

"We see terrible things," she had said, "and we know what they are. Our job is to make everyone else understand, and then to bring closure. That's all that matters, really."

"I can't sleep," he told her, "I keep seeing them, dreaming about them. And the war was going on nearby and I could hear the shots." His eyes were focused on her own even though they were burning. "Sometimes when I'm alone I can hear them. They just play in my mind." He sucked in a breath, "I don't know what to do."

Her eyes were pained as she regarded him. He knew she didn't know what to say and he hated himself for putting her on the spot. He shouldn't have come. He should have just toughened it out.

"Oh, Zack," she breathed and she surprised him by wrapping her arms around him. He buried his face in her hair and, despite his best efforts, began to cry. She held him tight, and he felt like he was ten again when he had sprained his ankle and his mother had hugged him, but he wasn't a child anymore so it wasn't the same. They stayed like that for a while, and when he finally pulled away her shoulder was damp and both their eyes were red with tears, and he was sniffling and her eyes were closed and she was swallowing.

"It's hard, Zack," she said when she had gained control of her voice again. She cleared her throat, "But there's something I want you to know and to remember."

"What?" he asked shakily.

"I'll always be here if you need me, and you never have to face your memories alone."

"Really?"

She nodded and smiled a little, "Yes."

A shy smile of his own touched his lips.

"Now, come on," she rose from her chair and grabbed her jewelry. "I'll take you home, and tomorrow you'll feel better."

"You think so?" he pushed to his feet.

Another nod, "As surely as I know the rotation of the Earth will show us the sun tomorrow."

--

I really love Zack and I have not let go of him (I don't care that it's S5 right now; Zack will never be dead or insane to me). I think PitH really murdered his character several times over, so I felt, and still feel, the need to rehumanize his character.

Also, part of the reason for my general dislike of S4 (and I may have the same issue with S5) is how...disconnected Brennan is portrayed. I do not believe her to be incompetant in interpersonal situations, and I think that people don't give her credit for being able to connect, talk comfortably, or comfort others without Booth. And she's been in the same situation as Zack, more or less, and I woud find it very hard to believe that she wouldn't be able to both relate and comfort him in this situation.

Anyway, that's my spiel.


	83. Kick in the Head

--

Kick in the Head

--

Chairs squeak against hardwood floors. A clock ticks somewhere to the far right. Agents stare at each other. One man's leg jiggles. Another one is sipping coffee. Someone clears his throat.

"Um..." Charlie starts to speak.

"Alright, alright, cheré, I'm coming," a voice drifts over the sound of a glass door sliding open. "Jeez," the woman in the doorway says, "Don't everyone stand up at once."

"Ms. Julian," Cullen rises from his chair, holding out his hand, "So...nice to see you again."

"Thanks for the sincerity," she looks around, "Who are these people?"

"Agents Seeley Booth and Charlie Mortensen. They handled the case."

"Who's the SAIC?"

"That would be me," Booth says.

"Why are you here?" she looks at Charlie.

"I'll go," he says quickly and then edges out, shooting an apologetic look to his make-shift partner as he goes.

"I just got back from rush hour traffic and a court case which I _almost lost_, cheré, so this better be good," the woman says before plopping into a seat, slamming her briefcase onto the table in the process. She's talking to Cullen, ignoring Booth.

"What do you suggest we do to start, Ms. Julian?" the deputy director asks.

"Caroline," she says. "And how about an introduction?"

He sighs, "Assistant United States Attorney Caroline Julian meet Special Agent Seeley Booth. Booth, she's the attorney attached to your case."

"You mean, he's the agent attached to _my_ case," she corrects, snapping open her briefcase and taking out a bunch of files. She begins to spread them out on the table.

"Right."

She looks up and her eyes bore into Booth's, "You capable of speaking for yourself?"

He clears his throat, "Just waiting for an opening."

"You being cheeky with me?"

"No, ma'am—Ms. Julian, I—"

"Ma'am?" she repeats and looks at Cullen, "Where'd you find this guy?"

"He's a good agent," the director says impassively and leans back in his seat. He doesn't want to get involved.

"Hmpf," she says. "Prove it to me."

"Um," Booth quickly moves to fill in the void in conversation that she has made, "At approximately o-five hundred hours, surveillance cam caught Mr. Swa—"

"I already read all that in the case file. You just wasting my time?"

"Am I?" he asks sarcastically.

She raises her eyebrows.

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly.

"This one better watch it," she mutters and shakes her head. "So tell me why I'm here and not some other rent-a-suit." It's an order, not a question.

"Mr. Swanson is responsible for the deaths of a senator and the injuries of two others," Cullen says. "We need a good prosecutor."

"Flattered you thought of me," her voice is dry. "Is this case all ready for me?"

"Yes," Booth says.

"Good. I'll be back tomorrow to pick up your notes. Don't keep me waiting," she begins tossing things back into her briefcase.

"Hey," the agent says, watching her, "Where're you going?"

"Home," she says, "to a nice bath. I've been on my feet all day, cheré, and I need a little relaxation. Your boss here didn't think so, so I decided to stop by."

"Stop by?" he repeats.

"Yes." She rises, "Stop by. That's what I said. Don't make me repeat myself. It puts me in a bad mood."

"Worse than now?"

"If you think I'm angry now, just wait till I've been deprived of my rest. I'm not mad right now—but I will be if this conversation continues for too much longer."

"Hey," he gets up, "I've had a long day too."

"Congratulations."

"We're here because a guy blew a senator to pieces and two others to within an inch of their lives. They deserve our time."

"You're brave standing up to me like this."

"It's..." his voice falters under her steady gaze. She's staring him down, "It's what's right," he forces out.

"Hm," she continues to look at him, study him. "You want me to give up what little personal time I've got to accommodate this?"

"Yeah," he forces the syllable out. This woman makes those Catholic nuns look sweet.

"On your schedule, not mine?"

"Yes."

She gazes at him for a little longer before her lips crack into a grin and she laughs a little. "You've got chops, I'll give you that, cheré." Her voice is amused, but in a way that is more evil than friendly.

He smiles too. Slightly.

"Sit down," she says.

He does.

"Obedient little puppy. I like that," she pauses. "Alright, I'll stay for this briefing. Tomorrow I come for your notes though, Agent Booth, so they better be ready."

"Oh, believe me, they will be."

"Good." She raises the briefcase up as she sits, and the next thing the agent knows it's slamming into his temple.

"Ow!" he exclaims, his hands already wrapped around the newly throbbing portion of his skull. "What the hell was that for?"

"For calling me ma'am," she replies, "and for disrespecting me in front of your boss."

"Ugh," he groans.

She smiles again, "I like you, cheré. All these monkeys here should be like you."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Of course. Caroline Julian doesn't dole those out like candy, you know."

"I'm not surprised."

"Good. You're getting to know me already." She slams the briefcase onto the table again. "So alright, you've got the floor, Mr. FBI Special Agent Booth. Impress me."

He doesn't, but then nobody ever impresses the prosecutor anyway.

--


	84. No Time

Inevitable how-did-Brennan-and-Booth-first-meet story/Theme.

I found it amusing to write. Hope you find it amusing to read.

-

No Time

--

There was a great clatter from below, followed by the sound of shattering glass and then a pregnant pause, broken quite suddenly by the screams of indignant voices. The words were lost to the sounds of the rest of the lab, but the tirade could probably be heard on the upper levels, possibly even outside.

Brennan glanced at Hodgins, her fingers hooked around the shaft of a femur. He shrugged and looked back down at the fabric he was scraping. She returned to her one-handed notation. They were too busy to care.

"What the hell was that?" Angela muttered to the anthropologist's right. She was scrunched up against the forensic platform's railing, and she was sketching a face from the picture of the skull that Brennan had popped on the screen for her. Even though she had asked, she didn't look away from her project.

"One of those FBI guys," Zack said. He had been the only one to look, "Apparently they couldn't wait for one of us to get the body."

"Idiots," Hodgins muttered.

"Mm," Brennan agreed. Her eyes flicked up, "Watch it!" she hissed as an army of blue lab coats passed much too closely to her table. The gurney scraped against stainless steel and she shouted her words a bit more loudly.

They glanced at her apologetically and then continued shoving their way in.

"Let it go, sweetie," Angela said. She didn't break eye contact with her drawing.

Brennan clenched her teeth and exhaled but did not go through with her plan of knocking them all out with the nearest lab instrument and then threatening everyone's lives if they gave her one more thing to stress about.

"Uh oh," Hodgins murmured in a sing-song sort of way, "Don't look up, Dr. Brennan."

Perfect, she thought, already knowing from his tone what was about to happen. Setting her jaw a bit more firmly, she leaned closer to the skeleton on her table, scribbled a note on her form, and then tuned out all other sounds.

"Hey," a voice said, somewhat close to her ear but far enough away that she could legitimately pretend not to have heard it. "Hey?"

She shook her head slightly and shifted away from the voice, reaching for a foot which was still slightly held together by a very tenacious wrap of flesh. She began to tear at it, hoping it would deter him.

"Ugh, that's gross."

Then go away, she thought.

"Are you listening to me?"

No.

When her silence gave him the answer, she heard a sigh and then, "Look, can any of you tell me where Dr. Brennan is? I was told to find him."

Him? She glanced at the man in the suit out of the corner of her eye, wondering how he could think she'd want to speak with someone who had not taken the time to even learn her sex.

"Who told you to find Dr. Brennan?" Hodgins asked his cloth. The anthropologist could see the grin on his face.

"Dr. Goodman," the man replied in a very self-righteous sort of way, as if dropping the archeologist's name suddenly gave him entitlement.

"He let you in?" Angela's dry voice drifted by.

"Yeah."

She glanced him waggling a visitor pass and rolled her eyes. As if that meant anything, she thought, finally standing up straight and feeling her back shoot several pings of pain along her spine. Walking around the table, she stooped only a little to grab the skull, and then she brought it to eye-level, rolling her jaw to the left and putting her weight on her right foot, an unconscious habit. She stared hard at the parietal and its long spiderweb-fissures, and she hoped he would go away. This was her third skeleton of the day, and she had yet to take lunch. She really wasn't in the mood.

"You one of those bone people?" the man asked next and she heard the faintest of snorts from Hodgins to her left.

She nodded once and very slightly.

"So you must know Dr. Brennan," was his next inference.

Another nod. She found her concentration slipping from the skull, and with it her hold on her temper.

"You his intern?"

Her eyes shot up and met his own, an action mirrored in her colleagues.

"What?" he asked, and his eyebrows arched. He was smiling easily.

"_I'm_ Dr. Brennan," she hissed. She didn't know who this man was, but she was in no mood to care, and he was just pissing her off now.

"So why didn't you just say so?"

She laughed, but not because she was amused, "I—" she stopped, feeling a slight tug on her sleeve. She didn't have to glance back to know it was Zack. "Because I am very busy, Mr..." her voice trailed off.

"Agent Booth," he said.

"I am very busy, Agent, and, in case it wasn't obvious," she gestured with her free hand while the other held the skull close to her chest, "this entire lab has been asked to consult with a very large archaeological find, and almost all of our part-time pathologists and interns are occupied working either with that or the local hospital's recent pathology outbreak. Meanwhile, I've been asked to consult with the archaeologists _while_ performing the work of a colleague in Virginia who is currently somewhere in Guatemala. _This_," she raised the skull a little before lowering it again, "is one of her cases.

"Therefore, you can understand that I cannot simply drop everything to help you with whatever it is that you want. Call or come by in a few days to set up an appointment. You'll need to send me paperwork for a consultation anyway."

With that, she turned her back to him and walked to a cabinet, where she found herself sandwiched between two gurneys and the railing whilst she dug around the drawer for a skull diagram. She didn't know why she hadn't grabbed it earlier, and she needed to sketch out the fracture pattern. God knows why pictures don't suffice.

"Aw; come on," the smooth voice of Agent Booth oozed into being on her left, and she jumped, pressing her clipboard to her chest and closing her eyes momentarily. "This is a real life murder, not ten thousand year-old skeletons."

"Some of these are maybe fourteen hundred, and a lot of it is only artifacts," she replied tersely and then began sifting through the cabinet, transferring the clipboard to her mouth. Where were those godamned drawings?

"Concept holds, Doc."

"Don't call me 'Doc,' " her fingers revealed the outline of what she was looking for. She pulled it out and shut the door with her hip, placing the sheet on the top of the cabinet before releasing the clipboard from her teeth and catching it with one hand, the other still gripping the skull. She clipped the page in masterfully.

"Want some help?"

"No," she replied and then pushed past him, heading for the table. When she met Hodgins' eyes he was grinning and she shot him a look. He shrugged and mouthed something that indicated he couldn't help and she rolled her eyes and exhaled before tucking the clipboard under her arm and reaching for a pencil.

"Going to take this to my office," she said, and three heads bobbed in response.

"I'll take this to you when I'm done," Angela said.

She nodded and then walked off the platform, knowing that Agent Booth was still behind her. She took the slightly longer route to her office, walking quickly and making a lot of turns, as she hoped to lose him in the sea of blue lab coats and pulled back hair. When she reached it she glanced around herself and, not seeing him, walked in and dropped into her desk chair. She made herself some room between her books and paperwork and then set her clipboard down, reaching under her desk for a sand litter for the skull. Shoving her computer monitor back, she set the litter down and then carefully nestled the skull in it, left parietal up. And then she smiled a little to herself, made herself more comfortable in her chair, and slipped the pencil from the clipboard. She had just made her first stroke when Agent Booth's voice cut over the relative sanctity of her office.

"Wow, look at these digs," he said and whistled, "Suddenly wish I had payed more attention in biology."

She groaned to herself. Why? Why today? Of all days, why today?

"I'm not sure that would've made any difference," she said, "What I'm doing isn't biology."

"Eh, it's close enough, Bones," he replied and she could hear him coming closer.

"I told you not to call me that."

"No. You said not to call you _Doc._"

Her irritation level was escalating.

"I would prefer Dr. Brennan," she said, thinking that Goodbye would suffice just as well, if not better.

Silence for a beat, then, "No. I like Bones better. Has a ring to it."

You know what else has a ring to it? My foot and your a—

"Besides, you know, the way you stare at those bones, it just fits you. Bones."

When she swiveled to look at him, he was grinning. For the first time she took a second to regard him, and she saw his bright gold eagle belt buckle and well pressed suit, the latter of which barely covered something large, yellow, and square. She also noted that his eyes took a fraction of a second to flick up and meet hers, and the casualness of what he thought was an unnoticed perusal of her body—revealed slightly by her loosely-buttoned lab coat—pissed her off even further.

"What is it that you want?" she asked.

His grin widened and he slipped the large yellow thing from his suit. "Our medical examiner said he wanted a second opinion and the squint he usually consults is out of town, so he said to refer to you."

"And who is this FBI ME?"

"Doc Andrews."

Bob. She knocked her head back into her chair. She would have a few choice words for him the next time she saw him, though he had probably been unaware of her current load when he had made the referral.

"So you know him?"

"Yes," she said and rose, "And if those are what I suspect they are, I'm going to tell you what I told you before. Make an appointment."

"Come on. Just a peak? It'll take you a second, Bones."

Her hands slid to her hips, "It won't take me a 'second,' " she replied in her best patronizing tone, "And even if it did, the paperwork could take me several hours, not to mention it would put me on the list of expert witnesses if it goes to trial."

"I brought the paperwork," he said, "It's in the envelope. I can't promise anything on the trial, but don't worry about it."

"It's my job to worry about it. Get an appointment."

"If I get an appointment you'll just end up on the witness list when you _do_ look."

She exhaled, "Get. An. Appointment." Maybe if she emphasized each word it would go through.

"What if I just wait here until you're done with," he glanced past at her, "whatever you're doing?"

"You'll be waiting until very late." She rolled her shoulders in a half-shrug.

"Aren't you going to take a late lunch?"

"No, and if I took the time for one it would be to take a short break from work, so I wouldn't do it then. Of course," she exhaled again, "that's irrelevant since I'm not taking lunch."

"Dinner?"

Her brows lifted, "I'm not taking you to dinner so that I can read x-rays for you."

"Well, I would pay."

She cocked her head and pursed her lips, her hands sliding up to her chest. She crossed them.

"So that's a no?"

"It's a no," she affirmed. "Besides, if I have dinner, it will be at my home."

"If?" he repeated.

"Look, Agent..." she grappled for his name, remembered only 'Boo' something, and quickly moved on, "I am going to be very busy for the next few days. Come in on the 23rd. I should at least be able to pencil you in somewhere."

"I'll stay here all day, Bones."

"Don't call me 'Bones.' "

He was smiling at her, a look that may have been charming if he hadn't spent the last several minutes pushing her closer and closer to the edge.

She fixed him with a glare. Not The Glare, but A Glare.

The smile bucked a notch and she saw his eyebrows scrunch a little closer to his brow ridge, but he otherwise maintained his composure.

She was torn between wanting to be rid of him and needing the satisfaction of gaining the upperhand. Their eye contact was held for quite a while, and with each millisecond that passed she felt that vicious streak winning out. Finally, she said, "Fine."

"Fine?" he repeated and then held out the envelope, "You'll look?"

"No," she shook her head and felt her lips twitch into a smile, "You can wait here. I will probably not wrap up until ten or eleven, maybe later. I won't be in my office for the whole of the time between now and then, and you cannot follow me. You must stay here, on that couch," she pointed to it, in case he was too thick to know that she did not mean 'desk chair' by 'couch.' "You will touch _nothing_ except the couch cushions and the floor. If you do, I will call security and, rest assured, I will _never_ look at those x-rays."

He opened his mouth.

"And if you make some sort of joke in which you indicate that you will have to touch my rug to sit on the couch I am throwing you out."

He closed it.

"Now, I have work to get done. Please do not interrupt me." She turned her back to him and headed to her desk chair, where she promptly dropped into it. Sighing, she grabbed for her clipboard.

After a few beats she heard him sigh and then shuffle to her couch, where he plopped down and muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?" she asked sharply, glancing over at him.

He smiled a little, "Was going to say I'd have to touch a pillow, not the rug."

Her eyes rolled so far back into her head it hurt for a moment, and then she sighed and shook her head before returning to her fracture mapping, only one word occupying her thoughts.

Blockhead.

She hoped it would stay that way.

–

Eh; I liked it that way. Probably happened that way, more or less, though in my heart I have a feeling that "Bones" came about slightly later...but I didn't, and still don't, have time to write anything longer, and it would get old eventually.


	85. Stripes

Do not ask what prompted this mess. I thought it was a funny idea at the time and I was seriously running out of ideas anyway...

--

Stripes

--

The auditorium was an absolute din of noise. Five minutes ago, it had been quiet enough to hear the piano player in one of the far corners, who had been tapping out some boring, repetitive song—one that was meant more as pleasant background music than anything—but then a voice had announced over the speakers that a bit of entertainment from the Jeffersonian had been planned for everyone's enjoyment, and that those in attendance should help in pushing back the chairs and tables to make room for a dance floor.

Moments later, the huge room was thrown into chaos as people hurried to comply quickly enough to maintain their seats. It was over in a matter of minutes, but in that span of time Booth managed to lose sight of the squints—minus the real squints—and when he finally found them again he had had to walk haphazardly from the north to the south wall, and, to his irritation, his partner was still not present. Two hours at this clap-trap, no Brennan. He had been forced to talk to Cam and Angela for all that time, and the other two squints had not been present either. Probably a blessing, but still.

But as he approached the squints, who were gathered around a large boxy machine, he saw Zack and Hodgins, who were in deep conversation with their compadrés. They were grinning to each other.

"Angela?" he said, "What the hell is going on?"

The artist glanced over at him. She was wearing a deep red strapless dress with one of those wraps around her arms that was so long it stretched to half her torso. Her hair was pinned back in some complicated braid configuration that rolled down her back, and she looked absolutely flawless, probably attracting every man in the room, and at her side Hodgins was in a hand-tailored tux with a silver bow tie. Cam was smiling comfortably in an old but still beautiful black dress that she'd had back in the Bronx. Her hair had been done up by Angela, and she had her mother's necklace around her neck and silver earrings in her ears. There was a single ring on her finger, but otherwise she was unadorned, and her dress uncomplicated. Zack was beside her, and he was wearing an expensive looking suit—no doubt from Hodgins—with an equally expensive red silk tie.

Angela smiled, "Miss Bren?"

Booth scowled.

"Don't worry, man," Hodgins said, "She'll be out in a moment. We just finished last minute coordination."

"What?" now he was confused.

The squints exchanged glances and they were all smiling.

"Dr. Brennan lost her bet," was all Zack said.

"What bet?" he asked.

_Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be beginning in a moment_, the speaker behind him announced.

"I want to do it," Angela said.

"We made it," Hodgins replied.

"And _I _helped coordinate."

"There are three songs," Zack said, "Why don't we just take turns?"

"Cam," Hodgins looked at her, "You want in?"

"Oh, no," she shook her head, "if something goes wrong, I am not going to be on Brennan's hit list."

"Fair enough."

"Nothing will go wrong," Zack said.

"Says you," she replied.

_Please make sure your phones are off. It's a pretty big room. We want to give Dr. Brennan our full attention._

"What's going on?" Booth asked, "Why is Bones being given attention?" He could not possibly imagine what his partner had bet that had caused her to be getting these sort of accommodations in the middle of the Jeffersonian banquet.

"Told you, Seeley," Cam said, "Brennan lost her bet."

"What was the bet?"

"Maintaining a normal person's work schedule for two weeks," Angela said.

"She lasted a week," Hodgins said.

"But then Dr. Brennan came in on a Saturday," Cam laughed.

"So she has to do something really _ab_normal now," Hodgins said.

He was about to ask what when the the center lights of the room grew a little brighter while sending the rest into relative darkness.

_I understand you're doing this on a bet?_ the announcer—whom Booth finally recognized as Goodman—asked.

_Yes,_ the voice of Brennan replied. _I mean, I lost the bet, but it's still on one._

_Care to give details?_

_No. It was silly._

He laughed, _Alright. Well, I won't keep you or your audience waiting._

_I suppose a bet is a bet then._

The speakers cut out with a pop and then there was movement in the northeast corner as Angela began to press dials on the machine and then the lights on the outside dimmed even further. She spun one of those wheels and the sound of a string instrument and drums hit the room.

"For the record, I didn't choose this song," Hodgins muttered.

"What is the song again?" Zack asked.

"White Flag," Cam and Angela said together.

Then they said nothing more.

A figure approached the center of the stage as the opening looped once and Booth recognized his partner, who was grinning, albeit uncomfortably. Laughter hit the room as a second figure was wheeled up and the agent's jaw fell open as he recognized it.

No way, he thought. Those squints have a sick sense of humor.

Brennan, grinning and nodding once to her audience, took the bony hand that was offered to her and then she began dancing.

Beside him, Angela was handling several joysticks, and he noticed that the movement of the arm had been facilitated by her, and he saw the small television screen that had been installed in the machine. On it was a crystal clear image of his partner—no surprise, as it was Angela's technology—and her dance partner—a standing skeleton.

Brennan was wearing an ankle length purple dress that billowed with her every practiced step. She was also wearing a wrap, this one connected to her dress, which hung over her arms and rippled as she ducked and weaved with her essentially inanimate partner. Her hair was back in a bun which sparkled with many shining silver pins. As she danced, her dress seemed to go from ink black to its real Tyrian purple, contrasting sharply with the ivory white of the bone at her side, and one gloved hand was entwined with the carefully wired fingers of the skeleton, which had not been decorated at all. Her other was around its ribcage, resting on the spine.

When Angela directed it with the her joysticks, the old bones would respond. She pressed a button and the camera zoomed in and she used the closer angle to make the hand that was on Brennan's shoulder clasp it more firmly. At the same time, Hodgins was directing the feet of the skeleton, which had been individually wheeled, as the spine was supported and kept straight by both complicated wiring and a stiff, thin rod with a wheel to the floor. It was a fast enough song that Brennan was constantly in motion, and it was partly her movements as well as the work of her squints that kept the skeleton following in her footsteps.

She danced with it like a partner, like a man whom she intimately knew. There was no awkwardness in any of what she did, and it seemed to almost come to life as the song rolled on, their entwined hands stripes of black and white, and he alternately overshadowing her before she covered him. Around her neck was a four-chained silver necklace—one he'd seen her wear before—and it glittered under her eyes, which reflected the light they gave. She was smiling absently, her eyebrows scrunched in concentration as they spun across the dance floor, and her partner, like everyone else in the room, found his eyes glued to her form.

Eventually the song tapered off, and Brennan's movements slowed until she stopped moving entirely, and when the song ended she turned to her audience, smiled, and, pressing a hand to her chest, bowed as the auditorium erupted in applause.

Beside him, Angela was grinning, and she reached for a small wire with a mike on it and brought it to her lips

"In the words of Nathan Lane," she said and her voice was barely audible over the clapping, "One more time for the cheap seats in the back!" She reached for a dial, "You ready for the second, Bren?"

The anthropologist was too far away to reply, so she gave a thumbs up.

Hodgins grabbed the joystick and manipulated it until the skeleton beside her mirrored her action—eliciting a laugh from those watching—as Angela said, "Okay."

She pressed a button and then spun a wheel, and then the sound of humming voices took over the speaker, broken by a drum beat. There were a few laughs from the audience, from those who recognized it, and then Hodgins grabbed the microphone, his hand still on the joystick.

"Shall I have this dance, Dr. Brennan?" he asked as the skeleton offered her its hand.

She laughed and nodded. Her hand slid over its shoulder, and its went around her waist, and then they clasped their free hands. They began to rock together, back and forth, all the while spinning slowly around the stage. At one point, Hodgins raised the skeleton's arm, and she twirled under the space it made for her until her back was to its chest, and they rocked like that for a while, like old lovers—an oddly intimate move for a woman who was dancing with what were essentially robotic bones—and when they parted it almost seemed to be regretful, and then they were together again. Hodgins was a master with the arm and hand movements, and Zack, even though the skeleton's feet were suspended and unable to lift, managed to keep good, non-disjointed time with her.

Out in the audience, someone had flicked on a lighter and was rocking with it, and soon almost everyone there was doing the same thing, until the whole place seemed alight with little flames. Scientists and donors rocked like teenagers at a concert, and in the center of the stage Brennan and her skeleton continued their slow movements. This time her face was unmarked by effort; she was simply taking the cues from the music and her squints' control, and possibly even her memory. By the time the song ended she seemed to have mellowed out, and she smiled at her watchers as they gave her a roar of approval, her breathing completely level.

"And now that we've put all of you to sleep, including you, Bren," Angela said into her mick, her voice once again taking a moment to silence the audience, "We've got something a bit more lively coming."

Brennan laughed at this, separating from the skeleton until she was an arm's reach away.

"Now for a little Santana," the artist continued, smiling at her friend as her fingers fell upon another button, "And don't worry everyone, you'll get your chance to dance tonight as well."

She clicked off and Brennan took the skeleton's hand as the first notes of the song started, smiling grimly. It was her dance, and she looked like she was going to enjoy the hell out of it.

--

By the by, it's my birthday today, so even if you thought this was the dumbest thing you've ever read in your entire life, be kind and drop me a good word. :P


	86. Questioning

Another rather silly one...yes, I know, it's unrealistic, but just pretend with me for my sake, alright?

--

Questioning

--

The lights flicked on with sudden intensity, throwing the room immediately into illumination and awakening its occupant from the table on which he had fallen asleep. He looked up with a groan, blinking and rubbing his eyes with hands that were grimy; his cheeks were unshaven and somewhat sallow, and when his fingers passed over them they left light brown streaks in their wake.

"Hello," Brennan said, tossing a file onto the table, "I'll be talking to you today."

He eyed her, "Why?"

"Why?" she smiled a little and jabbed a thumb at the door, "My partner has taken ill, but he wanted to be sure we took good care of you."

"Right," his rat eyes were still upon her, dark and beady. He smiled a little too, though of course neither of them were particularly friendly. "And who do I have the great honor of talking to today?"

"You speak pretty well for someone as dilapidated as yourself. Let me guess, been on the street for the past year?"

"Two years," he said, and he ran a hand through his hair, "And you didn't answer my question."

She slid out the chair that was directly across from him and slid into it, smoothly. "I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan with the Jeffersonian Institution."

"Here to sell me drugs? Tell me how corrupt my ways have become? That I can remedy now by enrolling in your program?"

"No," she shook her head. "I'm a forensic anthropologist."

"Here for a urine sample?"

"I work with dead things."

"Not quite ready yet for the knacker's. Gimme a few months till then, hm?" He grinned foul teeth at her.

"Yeah," she leaned forward, placing palms on the table, "Not that kind of doctor either. I work with people who have been tortured, mutilated, burned," she paused, "chopped into little bits."

The horse teeth retracted, and he leaned back, "Little bits, huh?"

"Yes."

"That's pretty small."

"They can be."

He leaned forward again, and he folded his fingers together on the table, very close to her own. "So," his tongue lolled out when he talked, and she could smell his breath, "I'm assuming that means you think _I_ may know something about some bastard who got chopped up into little bits?"

She ignored the smell of sour milk that seemed to permeate either from his body or his mouth, or both, "Who said anything about little bits?"

He snorted, "You did, lady."

"Actually, I implied it."

He shrugged, "Well, only a dumbass wouldn't catch what you were implying."

"And are you a dumbass, Mr. Hill?"

"Naw." His lips peeled back to reveal his teeth again, and he grinned at her, "Just a little slow." He tapped a finger to his head.

"Mm," she kept her opinion to herself. "So, care to share anything with me?"

"'Bout what?"

"This person who you say was chopped into little bits."

His eyebrows fell and creased over his brow ridge, "Hey, lady, cut the crap. You put those words in my mouth."

"You're very defensive," she cocked her head. "Hit a nerve?"

He said nothing and she didn't reply.

They sat like that for a while, and they glared at each other.

Finally, "Did you just call me in so we could stare at each other?"

She shrugged, "I'm just waiting for you to tell me about this dead person."

"Why don't you tell me?"

She decided to give him a little hint, "Does the name Douglas Cooper mean anything to you?"

His eyebrows twitched, but he said nothing.

She leaned forward a little more, and they were so close she could see the individual pores on his skin. "When I was twenty-five I went to Quantico for the first time in my life to present a new mode of casting fractures on bone that had been severely damaged postmortem. While I was there I was invited to a few lectures. I never grew particularly good at reading people, but I did pick up a few things."

"Does this story have an end or is this your way of bonding?"

"See, you're what my partner would call a bad liar. And the FBI sometimes see that as obstruction."

"We go from anecdotes to scare tactics?"

She shrugged, "I wasn't making any threats."

"Yeah. 'Cause they were veiled." He tapped his forehead again and he was gnashing his ugly teeth, "Planning on cutting to the chase soon, lady?"

"I already did, Mr. Hill. You're lying. And I think you may be stalling as well."

"Pfft," he scoffed and a wave of his breath rolled over her face, "Don't get too cocky. I may just decide not to say anything more."

She shrugged, "Fine."

Then they sat there for awhile, staring at each other. Eventually Brennan leaned back and grabbed the file to begin reading the notes she had scrawled there from her earlier examination. She already knew all of this information, but she needed to kill some time.

She could hear him breathing. He sounded like a horse, as his breaths were hard and loud. She began sifting through the scents in the room, and after a few long moments she detected cigarette smoke to be among them. Exhaling with a whoosh, she returned her attention to the file, wondering how much longer she would be waiting for him to crack under the pressure of silence.

He pushed back from his chair and she tensed, but he didn't come near her, and instead he started pacing around, from wall to wall. She watched him. He was rubbing his chin with his hand, occasionally running the other through his hair. He was still breathing loudly, and she noticed him patting his pocket, which she remembered had been emptied of its cigarettes.

She pursed her lips in irritation. Maybe she could go outside and find a guard who smoked so he could do it right in front of this guy. She wasn't about to do it.

Just her luck to get some guy craving a non-illegal addiction that she couldn't tempt him with. And if she did have somebody smoke in here it would leave a horrible smell. But maybe—

"So Cooper got whacked?" Hill's voice broke over her internal debate, "Or chopped, I guess." He laughed hollowly.

She nodded.

"Shame. Nice guy."

"You knew him?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I knew him." He shook his head and stopped his pacing, turning to her. He stamped his foot. "5'8", scruffy. Kind of guy you pass on the street and don't remember until a few hours later because he looks like some guy you had in a dream twenty years ago."

"I don't know what that means."

"Means he's generic. Mind can come up with his picture. Everything's set in neutral; except for his beard. That was one ugly-ass beard, man."

"I'm not a man."

He ignored that. "Lived on the streets six years before me. He smelled like bad eggs and vinegar." He snorted, "Nasty guy."

"How'd you meet?"

"I—"

A loud knock on the door cut him off, and Brennan turned to see her partner—who was dressed casually—poking his head from the door.

"Bones?" he said, "Can I talk to you for a moment?" He glanced meaningfully at Hill before retracting, the door shutting behind him.

She glanced back at her witness, annoyed because she was finally get somewhere. Sighing, she rose and walked from the room, where she was met immediately by her partner.

"Bones, what the hell are you doing?"

"What do you mean?" she stared at him and the balled up tissue he clutched in one hand. "I was questioning him, just like you wanted."

"I never said I wanted that."

"You said 'give him our very best' to the guard, and usually that's a euphemism for performing some sort of coercion."

"Usually?" he stared at her in disbelief, "Bones," he lowered his voice and glanced around, "Did you assume I wanted you to _question_ this guy?"

"Yes." She shifted.

"Jeez," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Then he opened the door to the observation room and walked inside. She followed and he shut the door behind her.

"Bones, this guy is _undercover_ with the DES."

She felt a flush crawl up her cheeks, "For how long?"

"Two years."

"That's a long time," she exhaled, her stomach starting to release butterflies.

"Yeah, Bones, it is." He exhaled and then cursed softly before turning to blow his nose into the tissue.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked when he had stopped.

He glanced over at her, and the new pockets under his eyes that had developed in the few days she hadn't seen him softened a little. He sighed, "No." He shook his head, "I'm not."

She wasn't sure if he was telling her the truth, and she swallowed, "I didn't do something bad did I?"

"No, Bones, it's fine."

"No, it's not fine." She glared at him, "Obviously I did something wrong. Did I get you in trouble by coming here today? Did I get him in trouble?"

"Look," he lowered his voice, "Cullen's going to be pissed, but I..." his voice trailed off, "How the hell did you get permission to talk to him on your own anyway?"

"Um," she shifted again and bit her lip, "I said you asked me to talk to him." She paused, "Alone."

He stared at her, "Why?"

"Well, I knew you were under a lot of pressure to close this case and I figured it would be nice if I could help with that."

"So you came here to...talk to my witness?"

"Yes."

"Who just happens to be with the DES?"

"Yes."

"And you decided to talk to him alone?"

"Well, I have clearance here, so..." she exhaled, "I asked if Cam wanted to help but she said no."

"Cam knew about this?"

"Yes."

The agent looked somewhere between dumbfounded and annoyed, and he sighed and rubbed his face with his hands.

"How did you find out I was talking to him anyway?" she asked.

"Charlie called me. Said you were up to something."

"That makes me sound so conniving," she protested.

"Not my words."

Silence for a moment and they stared at each other.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"I guess we go talk to him," Booth replied after a beat.

"And then what?"

"Hope Cullen doesn't decide that squints make good entrées." He paused, "And pray that Caroline never finds out about this."

"Why?"

"Because..." his voice trailed off, "Then we'll both be hamstringed and broiled alive."

"It's hard to know when you're serious when you use so much hyperbole."

"Yeah, Bones, you just keep thinking I'm exaggerating. And when we're dead, you can't say that I didn't warn you." He opened the door.

"Dead people don't say anything," was her automatic reply as they stepped out.

"Yeah," he exhaled, "I've heard."

--


	87. Precious Treasure

And now for an insanely long and completely irrelevant two-shot which also happens to be massive indulgence on my part...

--

Precious Treasure

--

Humidity and heat were both very heavy on this late summer night, and it honestly didn't feel like it had cooled at all since the sun had gone down many hours ago. The lab had been full of people attempting to escape the heat of the outside, and some had threatened to sleep there because their poor intern salaries insured a night with neither air conditioner nor working fan. There were other rumblings of simply grabbing onto the edge of a plane wing and allowing it to take them where it would, preferably somewhere cold. Like Antarctica. Or Pluto.

Brennan, for her credit, had spent a few minutes outside because she had been selected to go out and buy out the nearest market's supply of lemonade. After all, lab personnel had reasoned, she had been to tropical rain forests in the middle of heat waves. Her argument, which had been overruled anyway, was that that may be true, but she had spent that time yards below ground level in slightly cooler graves and she had not enjoyed a second of her time there. Money was shoved into her hands regardless, and when she had come back from the unairconditioned market she had been greeted like a war hero and had gotten first dibs on refreshments.

Now, hours later, she was driving home over quiet streets. It didn't really surprise her that no one was out. DC was in heat, and everyone was keeping inside to the best of their abilities. She had the road mostly to herself, and although she knew that her apartment was likely to be only slightly warmer than her preference, her car was akin to the inside of a refrigerator and the thought of exiting it for the jelly-like heat made her cringe. Thus, she was taking the long way home.

As she passed through streets that were transitioning slowly from districts dominated by commercial buildings into spaces of residential interest, and she saw dumpsters transform into small alleyways and walkways littered with trash, her thoughts began drifting. These were times when the need for her own particular sort of expertise became more pronounced as bodies surfaced and the blistering heat sped the rate of decomp, but after the longer hours of spring and winter—when she was most loathe to leave—she was feeling the familiar urge to take off once more, to go somewhere new or revisit an old place that was slipping into that realm somewhere between remembering and not recalling. Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was restlessness, but her metaphorical blood was up and in the current lull she was wondering what places called her this time. The lull would be short-lived, she knew from experience, because soon the worst of the heat would be over and people would return to their hiking or sightseeing or diving or whatever it was that brought bodies to her and it would be too late to escape and she would have to spend the summer here and her restlessness would only be channeled into her ever-worsening mood—dubbed summer PMS by Angela and bodies blues by Hodgins. PMS or the blues, whatever the hell it was she wanted something new to happen.

She gritted her teeth as she pulled to a stop at a light. Just pondering her situation made her agitated. She needed to get out of her head.

Tapping her fingers, she watched the light, studying the color, ignoring the possibility of spotty vision when she would look away. It seemed to hold for an impossibly long amount of time considering there was almost no one there to share the crossroads with her—as this was purely a residential neighborhood—and anyone who was going to make a turn had already done so. She was weighing the pros and cons of running it when a crash to her left distracted her and she watched a small figure blur out of a narrow alleyway. Following it was a much larger figure, which was screaming obscenities that she could almost make out through the sealed windows of her car. He was waving something large and heavy, and when she glanced the object of his rage she felt her stomach clench.

Her hand was on the door lever before she was even fully aware of what she was doing, and then she was outside and hearing his curses in her ears. The heat hit her like a sledgehammer, but she ignored it as she approached the man, placing herself between him and the figure crouching at his knees.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked him, her hands loose at her sides in case he was going to try to hit her as well.

"Fuck're you?" the words were garbled in his mouth, and she could smell the alcohol on him. "Outta the fuckin' way."

"That's not happening."

He squinted at her, his mouth slightly open as he breathed. "Got a lot of fuckin' nerve, bitch." He took a step toward her and she tensed, "Gonna ask you again to get outta the way."

"No," she said calmly.

"No?" he repeated and his teeth were disgusting, "Makes you think you can talk to me like that, bi—"

"Because you don't scare me."

"You should," he said, "Because _nobody_ gets between me," he grabbed her arm, and his grip was a vice, "and my meat."

She twisted her arm and her body around him and brought her elbow into his gut. He doubled over, groaning, and she sweeped his legs out from under him with a foot. She pinned him with a shoe to his throat, and she applied pressure.

"Don't touch me," she told him. "And I don't know if this is your dog or the neighbor's dog or some other person's dog, and I don't care. I am taking him home with me tonight. You try anything," she hissed, "And I'll bring the FBI on your ass."

"You don't scare me, bitch," he wheezed.

"And another thing. Learn some new adjectives. Invest in a dictionary." She removed her foot and turned to pick up her new charge, but she was stopped by a sudden pressure on her ankle. His grip was surprisingly strong, like a metal trap, and she felt her shoe cutting hard into her talus. Grunting, she whirled and smacked her free foot into his head, and then he released her as his head lulled back, his eyes flickering shut. She didn't feel even the slightest bit of guilt as she stepped away from his unconscious form, stepping on his fingers as she went, and when she turned to see the dog she felt a stab of pain.

"It's alright," she said soothingly, kneeling and holding her hand out. The dog shook where he stood and she stared at him helplessly, hoping he would allow her to pick him up. When she moved closer the dog didn't back away and she saw the collar around his neck, which meant he had—at some point—had a family who hadn't wanted to lose him. He didn't flinch as she gave her hand for him to sniff, but he ignored it, and when she put her hand on his head he only regarded her with his sad black eyes.

"I am going to take you home with me, to my apartment," she told him. "And I'll see what I can do for you, alright?" She scratched behind his ears, and she smiled as his tail began to wave a little. "I don't have any dog food, but I'll pick you up some. Alright?" He didn't reply, not that she expected him too, but it suddenly occurred to her how hard the both of them were breathing in this heat. Her clothing was sticking to her skin already, and she could see even in the bad lighting of the street that his hair was matted with sweat.

"I'm going to pick you up now," she told him, and she ran her hand down his head until she reached his back, and then she carefully slid her other around his stomach. He was very thin, and it made her angry at the man she had knocked unconscious. She felt a very strong desire to do something to him where he laid—like pulling him onto the road—but she decided against it. She needed to get this dog some care.

"Alright. One...two...three," she lifted him, and he whined but didn't struggle. "Good. You're doing great," she murmured in his ear, like she'd heard Booth talk to that woman they had rescued three months ago. "I hope you don't mind cars," she told him as she walked around to her passenger-side door and opened it with her pinky finger. She placed him on the seat and made sure he wasn't in the way as she closed the door, and his eyes followed her as she headed to driver-side and slipped inside.

"There," she said and rubbed his head again. "It's much cooler in here. Not going to roll down the windows for you because it's too hot." She didn't know why she was talking to him like he could understand, but it felt better, right, somehow. The dog's tongue was lolling out of his mouth, and she flicked on the overhead light and leaned forward to try to read his ID.

"Max," she was finally able to make out. "Funny. I know a Max myself." She thought of her father, who was currently in Oregan with her brother, "Hopefully the two of you have nothing in common."

Max just stared at her, and she smiled and tapped on the gas—for in her haste she had not turned the car off—and she pulled away, thankful that the heat had insured that no one had been stuck behind her. As she drove the fairly short distance to her apartment, she kept glancing at her new passenger, wondering how he had gotten to where he was. The tag he bore was in the shape of a heart, and he seemed genuinely friendly. He wasn't the most beautiful, at least not from the little she could see of him, but that was the only flaw she could see.

When she reached her building she parked in the garage, and she decided he'd probably appreciate walking rather than being carried, so when she exited the car she went to the trunk and dug inside her ever-present scene bag. At the bottom she found the chord she'd use in case she'd need to lower herself into a pit, and she grabbed it before slamming shut the trunk and walking around to passenger side. Max didn't resist as she hooked it to his collar and he hopped out when she gave him room.

"Why would anyone abandon you?" she asked him as he padded beside her, and it was a rhetorical question because she knew the answer. There was no reason; it just happened—to both dogs and people.

There was no doorman to wave at her as she passed through, and she skipped the stairs for her new companion's sake, instead heading to the elevator. He followed her in without hesitation, and as they rose he sat on his haunches and stared up at her with his large eyes, his tongue still lolling from his mouth. She smiled and scruffed his head a little more, and his tail wagged again.

"God, you're trusting," she murmured to him as the doors pinged open and they began walking toward her door, "And sweet."

He waited patiently as she dug around her purse for her keys and then unlocked the door, and when she stepped inside he followed.

"I'll get you some water," she said, unclipping the chord and then walking to her kitchen, where she grabbed a bowl and ran it under the sink. Max followed her and sat by her feet, and when she walked around to place the bowl at an alcove where she wouldn't accidentally trip on it he followed and then stared at her.

"It's for you," she informed him.

He cocked his head.

"Go on," she pointed at it, and his eyes followed her finger. "You can have it. It's not as if I poisoned it."

His tongue rolled from his mouth again, and she sighed and knelt, thinking. He seemed nice enough, she thought, cupping her hand in the water before holding it out to him. He sniffed at her dripping fingers before allowing his tongue to sink into the water, and when she didn't do anything he lapped it up, his eyes never leaving her own. When the water was gone he licked at her fingers, and she led his head around slowly to the dish. She smiled when he began drinking, and she scritched his ears, leaning back on her ankles.

In the light, she could see him better, and he was as thin as she had felt him. He was grey with the occasional black undertone to his coat, and one of his ears was black, and they were both pink on the inside. His eyes were nestled in black pockets, and that black cloud was over his muzzle as well, his black nose blending in almost perfectly except for a small pink stripe on his nose. As he drank she ran her hands down his body, and she could feel his ribs and pelvis quite clearly under his clumpy fur. She found a few hard things, and when she pulled each of them out she found a burr and two ticks.

"You need to be groomed," she told him.

He continued to drink in a way that suggested he hadn't had one a while.

Sighing, she palmed the insects and the plant and threw them away, and then she leaned against the counter and watched him. When he finished the water he padded around to her and she ran her hand over his head, and he looked up at her with his sad eyes.

"I apologize," she said, "I'm afraid I have neither dog food nor meat. Or bones," she paused. "Ironic."

Max apparently wasn't listening, for his head was on her crooked leg and his eyelids were drooping. Only his tail was still thumping the floor.

She felt around her pocket for her cell phone and when she found it she punched a number and held it to her ear.

It was picked up by the second ring.

"You've reached the ninth circle of hell," a none-too-cheery voice answered, "How may I help you?"

"Angela?" she said.

"Bren," the artist's voice changed tones only a little, "What's wrong? Your air conditioner down too?"

"No. Actually, it's perfect in here." Up until now the temperature hadn't even registered, and she realized what a relief it was to be out of the heat.

"Ugh. So you're calling to rub it in?"

"No. I called because I need a favor."

"Does it involve chartering a plane to the subarctic?"

"No, but you'll get to come to my air-conditioned apartment."

Pause, "I may not leave."

"That's fine."

"Alrighty, Bren," she sounded happier now, "Sounds like a plan. What do you need?"

"Can you swing by the store and pick up..." her voice trailed off as she thought, staring down at her charge. He needed food, but the thought of giving him sludge in a can made her wince, "Can you get me some ground beef? Not too much. Maybe a half-pound?"

"What?"

"And a brush...And some dog biscuits."

Pause, "Dog biscuits?"

"Yes. Medium-sized ones. Don't need the huge ones."

"Why?"

"Well," she stroked Max's muzzle, "His mouth really isn't that huge."

"He? Who? Wait..." she stopped for a beat, "Bren, did you decide to get a dog?"

"Well, 'decide' is really the wrong verb."

"There's a dog in your apartment?"

"Yes."

"Like a dog? A woof-woof kind of dog?"

Her eyebrows crinkled. "Well, I haven't heard him bark yet, but—"

"Ooh, Bren! I'm glad you finally decided to share your life with someone. I mean, it's not a man, but you're getting closer. And dogs are so much nicer than men sometimes anyway, so..."

"Ange," she cut in gently, "So you'll run to the store and get me those things?"

"Of course. Be there in a few minutes, hun."

They exchanged goodbyes and then the artist disconnected.

Brennan slipped her phone back into her pocket and tapped Max's head, who looked as if he had fallen asleep on her. "I'm going to the couch now. It's more comfortable." His eyes flicked open when she straightened her leg and she patted her side to indicate that she wanted him to follow her as she walked around to her couch. She dropped heavily into the cushions and propped her feet on her coffee table.

Max stared at her.

"Come on," she patted the seat beside her. "You can come up here with me."

His sad eyes went from her to her hand and back again, and when she replicated her movement he hopped up.

"That's good," she said as he laid his head on her stomach. She placed her hand on his head. "God, you're a sweet dog."

He blinked up at her for a few minutes, but eventually his eyelids began to droop again and soon he seemed to have fallen asleep. She ran her hands over his head and back and loved his weight on her. She had last had a dog with her parents, and he had been larger and smellier but she would spend hours cleaning the dirt from his fur and stroking him as he laid on her lap. He had died almost a year before her parents left, and it had been one of the worst days of her younger life.

Max had the same sort of weight, and she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him closer. He didn't wake up and she rested her arm on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She was tired enough to go to sleep right here.

A knock on the door disturbed them both, and together they looked at it.

"Bren?" Angela's muffled voice drifted through.

"Ange," she said as loudly as she could while moving her chest as little as possible. "Use your key."

"Alright."

Several beats passed, and then the sound of key in lock followed by that of the door clicking open hit both their ears, and then Angela stepped inside, a plastic bag hooked around her arm.

"Aww," was the first thing out of the artist's mouth, "Oh, sweetie, that is so cute."

Brennan smiled while Max just regarded her with his sad eyes.

"I guess I can try to get up," the anthropologist said, shifting, but Angela held up her hands.

"No, no. I'll make the food. Don't worry about it."

She stopped, "You sure?"

"Yeah. Of course." She set the bag on the counter, "But first I want to say hi to your friend."

The artist walked around the couch and she scritched her fingers from Max's head to his lower back.

"Oh, he's such a sweetie, sweetie," Angela grinned as Max's tail began beating against the cushions. "What's his name?"

"Max."

"You pick that name?"

"No. That's just what it said on his collar."

"What?" she fingered the collar and brought it up to her eyes, "Bren, you didn't steal Max did you?"

"No. Of course not."

"He's really thin," her voice was becoming concerned, "Did you find him on the street or something?"'

"Yes."

"Oh, the poor thing," Angela leaned down and wrapped her arms around him in a hug, "He didn't deserve that."

Max whined and wagged his tail even harder. Both women laughed.

"He must be starving," the artist said, disentangling herself, "I'll go get a biscuit and then start the meat."

She walked to the counter to get the treat, ripping off the cardboard top and then digging inside. "It's Scooby Doo." She was grinning as she held the treat out to Max, "Figured it would be appropriate."

Max stared at it, his doleful eyes occasionally flicking up to Angela's.

"It's okay," Brennan said, "You can take it."

"Here," Angela handed her the cookie, "You give to him. Maybe he'll take it from you."

"Good idea," the anthropologist took it and then held it to his nose. "Here," she said, and now those eyes were on her. "Take it."

His mouth opened slowly, cautiously, and he took the treat as if expecting to be struck. And then he just held it, staring at her.

Angela ruffled his fur again before walking back to the kitchen area, where she pulled a package from the bag before leaning down to grab a pan.

"So what's his story?" she asked, "How'd you find him?"

Brennan explained it as the artist began cooking, all the while fussing with Max to try to coax him to eat. He finally began to crunch as she finished her tale, and Angela was eying her, a spatula pressed to what was presumably the beef.

"You're alright, right?" she asked, "I mean, that guy didn't hurt you did he?"

"No, no. I'm fine."

"Good. Jeez, sweetie, how do you keep getting yourselves into situations like that?"

She shrugged, "I don't know, but I'm glad I did." Her eyes were on Max again, who appeared to have fallen asleep once more.

"I'm sure he is too."

"Mm," she ran her finger over the curves of his skull. "Ange, can you hand me the brush?"

"Mm-hm." The artist clicked over and handed it to her.

"'Kay," Brennan muttered, "May hurt, Max," she said and then placed the brush in the most knotted of areas, where the need was most obvious, and began brushing. Max's head shot up.

"It's okay," she soothed, stroking him with her finger while the other worked on a giant—and previously unseen—clump of hair. "Just have got to make you look a little nicer. No reason to look so ratty, huh?"

Max eyed her for a few moments longer before hesitantly laying his head back down, and she could feel him twitch under her fingers with each brush stroke, but he didn't protest or attempt to get away. No longer worried about traumatizing him, Brennan focused her attention on attacking the knot. She knew that it was hopeless to try to unravel it, and unfortunately the only solution would be to pull it out. Luckily Max was shedding, so there wouldn't be quite so much difficulty in doing that, but god knew how much it would hurt him. After all, her old dog Duke had acted as if she was trying to murder him whenever she brushed him.

Max, however, either didn't seem to mind or had no intention of resisting, because he wasn't moving. She cooed several times that she would reward him for his behavior with many dog biscuits or something similar and she found as time wore on and the smell of meat began to invade her living space that it must've been somewhat therapeutic to the both of them, because he relaxed and she began to feel exceptionally drowsy. Her reality was just beginning to shift away when Angela plopped down beside her, saying a few words that she didn't catch.

Max seemed to know though, because his head was up again and he was eying her.

"Here you go," the artist said and placed a plate on the floor, right at her feet. She then grabbed a small piece of a brown something and held it out to Max, who snuffled it carefully before consuming it. He leaped off Brennan's lap a moment later, and when he landed he immediately began eating with a vigor she hadn't seen from him since his dash from the alley.

"You know, I think having a dog will be good for you," Angela said.

"Why?" Brennan asked, glancing at her.

"Well, I just haven't seen you so content in a while. Or maternal for that matter."

"I'm not very maternal," she replied automatically, flushing a little.

"Maybe, maybe not, but here, right now, Bren, you were acting mothering. There's no shame in that."

She smiled but it faded, "He has a family, Ange; he's got tags and everything. I can't keep him."

"Right now he needs a friend," she wrapped her arm around her own. "And he needs to be taken care of. We'll find the family later."

"You really think it would be alright for me to just keep him until then?"

"Maybe not ethically," she shrugged, "But I think you need some bonding time and," she grinned, "you'll have someone to share your bed with now."

She rolled her eyes.

"Besides, look at the poor thing. He needs help and you're the perfect one to give it. I mean, who else would insist on buying beef instead of dog food?"

She shrugged and then felt her arm being squeezed.

"And don't be afraid to love him either. It's always so much easier with animals anyway, so don't resist the impulse. He'll be the perfect way to get over your summer PMS."

"There isn't actually such a thing as summer PMS," she pointed out.

"Yeah. Tell that to my mother," she muttered that but quickly moved on, "And since my air conditioner is broken, I think I will stay the night too. It's _at least_ ten thousand degrees in my apartment right now, and Hodgins is still in that conference thing in Virginia."

Brennan nodded, "Alright." She watched as Max licked the now empty plate and glanced around himself, and then she patted her lap. He leaped onto her. "Oof," she exhaled.

Angela was smiling.

"What?" the anthropologist asked, unable to keep defensiveness out of her tone.

"Nothing," she shook her head. "But there's one thing I've got to tell you, Bren."

"And what is that?"

"Both of you seriously stink. I think Max needs a bath and, frankly, so do you."

"Thanks a lot," she grimaced at her.

"It's what friends are for," the artist replied.

Brennan rolled her eyes and went back to stroking her charge, who rolled over to expose his belly. She grinned and scratched the white patch as Max made groaning sounds, his tongue lolling from his mouth.

They spent a while longer like that and when Brennan finally went to her bed, Max followed, and they spent the rest of the night together in mutual peace and contentment.

–

Yes. I am an animal person. A big one.

:P


	88. Sacrifice

Part II of the pointless story...

--

Sacrifice

--

The blowing of the air conditioner mixed with the dying sounds of food-making as the oil slowly cooled and the little bits of onion that had not made it to the plate burned whatever moisture they had left away. The oven was venting its heat with a quiet hum and nearby the refrigerator gurgled. A late lunch to substitute for a later dinner. That was the plan anyway.

Brennan had made a large and complicated pasta dish, most of the complications having come from the sauce, which was made up of a few different kinds of cheeses, mushrooms, onion, and garlic over a wine base. She had opted for the pasta while her partner had decided the sauce would taste just as good over a steak. For whatever reason, he had also insisted on making a basket of fries, which she was currently munching on even though the basket was—purposefully—as far away from her as the table had space for. She had ignored the not-so-subtle hint and was enjoying her spoils, all the while her eyes trained on her partner's hand, which was slowly sinking out of her eyesight and below the table.

"No," she said, swallowing her fry.

"No what?" Booth replied, his arm freezing at his side. She couldn't see his hand anymore but she knew where it was anyway.

"Don't give him anymore. He already had his dinner."

"But what if he's still hungry?"

She gave him a look. Not quite a glare, but close enough.

"Jeez," he said, lifting the previously unseen hand to rub his chin. His fingers were empty, "Mean."

"You gave it to him anyway, didn't you?" she asked and she glanced around him to see Max chewing on something. The dog froze when they made eye-contact, his mouth still half-open. She could see the meat between his teeth. She exhaled, rolled her eyes, and looked away, at which point Max resumed eating.

"Booth, I _told_ you he's eaten enough for tonight," she reprimanded.

"I know, but, you know, he was giving me that look, you know..." his voice trailed off as her own look began to morph into a glare, "Um, with those big eyes."

She rolled her eyes again and reached over him to grab another fry, catching his wrist before he could slap her hand away.

"You know, I'm not the only one not listening to orders," her partner grumbled, picking up his knife and cutting into the meat on his plate.

"Yeah, well, this is my apartment," she replied, placing a fry between her teeth, "You want to set ground rules with food, bring your own pans."

"See, she's mean. What did I tell you?" he was talking to Max now, who was ignoring him as he finished the last of his own bite of food. "Completely mean to me."

"You want to see mean," she began to threaten before Max locked eyes with her again. She glanced away, but the look had already distracted her, "Um." She cleared her throat. "Forgot what I was going to say."

Booth laughed as Max came up to nuzzle her knee with his cold nose.

"See, you're just as bad as me," her partner accused as she absent-mindedly rubbed Max's head. "You know you want to feed him."

"I already did. Much more than he should have. No wonder he gained weight so quickly."

"Well, you gotta admit, Bones, he looks way better than he did a month ago."

She avoided Max's eyes, which were trained on her hands. They weren't sad anymore, hadn't been for weeks now, and she had discovered that the dolefulness had hidden a hunger-streak that only her partner could match. And Max was a good beggar too. Damn him.

"Yes," she said, "He does look much better."

"See, and that wouldn't have been possible without us constantly over-feeding him."

"You know, it's a good thing I've given him something _other_ than meat, or he wouldn't been plain unhealthy by now."

"Yeah, well," Booth adjusted in his seat, "The fact that you gave him that cucumber stuff is just gross."

"He happened to like it. Didn't you?" she scruffed Max's ears and he placed a paw on her knee, widening his jaws in a yawn that sounded much more like a wine. "See? He agrees with me."

"No. He just wants my food."

"And don't you dare give him anymore either."

"Alright, alright," he held up his hands. "Fine. Have it your way."

She returned her attention to her food and moments later he was leaning out of his chair and whispering something to Max.

"What was that?" she asked sharply.

"It's a secret," he said and tapped his forehead.

Another eye roll.

"You know, Bones, if you keep doing that your eyes are going to freeze like that up there."

She opened her mouth to correct him but then he was getting up from his seat, empty plate in hand, to head to the kitchen, Max trailing behind.

"Man, that sauce was good. You're good with sauces. You should cook more often."

She closed it, shook her head. "Thanks," she managed and then remembered her next order, "Don't give him that plate to lick. He doesn't need all that salt and pepper."

"You're no fun, Bones," he said and then proceeded to run it under the sink. "She's just a meanie," he said to Max, "Only she's kind of soft too. I know she's been feeding you scraps too; she just doesn't want to admit it."

She considered throwing a fork at him but decided a fry would suffice.

It pinged off his head before falling to the floor, where it was promptly consumed by Max.

"See? What did I tell you?"

Max didn't stay to listen, because he was back at Brennan's side as she rose, plate and basket in hand, on her own way to the kitchen. She used the edge of her plate to scoot her partner out of the way, but the moment she laid her burdens in the sink he pressed his finger to her arm and forced her back.

"Naw uh," he said, "You cook, I clean. Those are the rules."

She considered arguing but decided that her couch would be a more comfortable perch than the sink anyway, so that's where she went, Max at her heels. "You know," she muttered to the dog, but loud enough so Booth could hear, "I'm not the only softy in this house."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," was her reply.

"Just by responding to it I know that you did," she retorted.

"Did what, Bones?" the sink water was loud over his voice, but she could still hear him. "And don't roll your eyes."

She caught herself before completing the movement and she gritted her teeth, wishing she still had a fry to throw at him. Finding no suitable alternative, she plopped onto her couch and spread out, her feet hanging over the arm. She shoved the pillows at her back as Max leaped onto her stomach, and then she stroked his head as she waited for Booth to finish up. It took him a few minutes, and when he came back she could see dark lines in his shirt from the water that splashed there, and he shook his head when he saw her.

"You know, if he wasn't there I'd make you make room for me," he said before taking his place on a chair.

"No you wouldn't," she replied. "If _I'm_ soft, you're puddy."

He grimaced at her.

"See, he's not even arguing," she told Max, "That's because he knows I'm right."

Max yawned again.

"I think we're boring him," she said to her partner.

"No. _You're_ boring him. I'm on the other side of the room."

"You're maybe a yard away."

"My argument holds."

"No it doesn't."

"Does."

"Does not."

"Yes it does to infinity."

"That doesn't make sense."

"That's 'cause you just don't know how to reply."

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then she shook her head and laughed, "Booth."

"Yeah, Bones?"

"We sound like twelve year-olds."

"Yeah, but unlike a twelve year-old, _I_ have a gun."

"What is with you and that thing anyway?"

"You're one to talk."

She said nothing. He had her there.

So she changed the subject, "You did bring your files, right? Those are all of them?" she pointed to the stack on her table. She couldn't tell hers from his at this point.

"That's all of them," he replied.

"Good. Can you hand me that stack?"

He did and handed her a pen too.

"Thanks." She paused, "When does Caroline want these?"

"By Friday."

"Then why are we doing them now?"

"You know Caroline. When she says Friday she really means Wednesday."

"Tomorrow's Wednesday."

He took his own stack, "Exactly."

They lapsed into silence, the scritching of their pens the only sounds besides the air conditioner. As usual, time seemed to slow to an almost painful rate, broken only by the occasional question or comment. Max fell asleep.

Brennan's stack wasn't as bad as she had thought it would be. It was mostly just signing things, and she didn't have to do a great deal of checking. Steadily she worked her way through it, until there was only one file left.

"Booth?" she said, opening it. "This isn't a case file, at least not one that belongs in this stack."

"Hm?" the agent glanced up and she handed it to him. "Oh," he said after a beat and she tensed at his tone.

"What?"

He shifted, "Wanted to talk to you about this."

"What, Booth?"

He glanced at Max, "Remember how when you called the number on Max's tags you got no answer, and when you went to the address there was no one there?"

"Yes," she said, wondering where he was going with this and hoping it wasn't what she suspected it was.

"Well, there was a reason, and it wasn't because he moved," he flipped open the file and grabbed a picture, "Meet Michael Ralthorn of Maryland. He moved to DC for work purposes about four years ago."

Brennan stared at the picture. He was a man, just like almost any man she would pass on the road or the street in any given day. Completely unremarkable, except for the slight shine of amusement in his eyes.

"Is Max Ralthorn's?" she asked.

"Well, he was."

"Was?" she repeated.

"Remember those shootings last year?"

She nodded. Cam had received two of the victims.

"Yeah, well, he was one of the casualties."

"He was involved?"

He shook his head, "Bystander. Caught a stray bullet to the skull." He placed two fingers to his forehead.

She swallowed and gave the picture back, "So what does this mean for me? For Max?"

"The shootings, they occurred while Ralthorn's wife was out on a business trip in Seattle. Cops apparently didn't even know about her for a few days, and when she filed an MP report..." his voice trailed off and they shared a moment of silence, imagining what that moment must have been like. Booth cleared his throat, "Max was gone. Wife tried to find him, put the feelers out. She said Max was the only part of her husband she had left. Posters and everything." He exhaled, "Never found him."

"But I found him," she said. "He's here."

"Yeah." He was gazing at her, his eyes locked on hers.

She broke the eye-contact, looking down at Max. She was surprised to feel a sting in her corneas.

Clearing her throat, she asked, "And where is Mrs. Ralthorn now?"

"Clarke County, Virginia, with her family."

She nodded, stroking Max's face absently. He sighed on her stomach, and she felt the organ lurch painfully.

"I have to give him back," she said quietly.

"Yeah," Booth's voice was just as soft.

She had known this moment would come, but a month with Max was a long time for someone who had previously spent the last several before it alone. And when her attempts at locating his prior family had failed, she had secretly nursed the hope that she would be able to keep him.

Neither of them said anything for a very long time, and she eventually closed her eyes and felt herself sink farther into her couch. She did not want to give up her newfound companion, that much she knew and could feel very strongly, but she also knew there was someone else who Max rightfully belonged with and probably needed for emotional support. She could sometimes be accused of selfish behavior, but in this case her conscious was very clear.

"Did you already call to tell her than I have him?" she asked finally, breaking the tension-filled silence.

"No," he shook his head.

"Do you have her number?"

"Yeah."

She held out her hand to him, and she gave him her eyes. "Can you give it to me?"

His eyebrows arched. "Now?"

"Yes."

His fingers slipped inside his jean pocket, and he rifled around a little before pulling out a scrap of yellow paper—no doubt ripped from his notepad. He handed it to her, and she took it with an overly steady hand.

"You're going to call now?" he asked.

"Well," she carefully checked her watch, slowly enough so that Max was undisturbed, "It's getting late. If I don't now, I'll have to wait until morning."

"Then why not wait until morning?"

"Because it'll only get harder in time," she replied simply, "Can I have your cell for a moment?"

Wordlessly, he handed it to her.

She took a deep breath and then began punching the numbers in.

"It's very good of you, Bones, what you're doing," Booth said and she nodded.

"Doesn't make it any easier though," her voice was quiet.

"You'll make her very happy."

"Yeah. I know." She pressed the call button and held the phone to her ear, clenching her teeth. Time slowed again, and each ring seemed to take an agonizingly long amount of time.

"You don't have to go through with this. Maybe she's moved on by now."

She shook her head, "It takes a long time to move on from things, Booth, and even longer to leave things behind." She finally heard a click, and then a somewhat groggy "Hello?"

She began to explain who she was and why she was calling, all the while staring at her partner and stroking Max's muzzle. It was always hard to give something up or to leave something behind, and she knew because she'd been through this before. And even when she heard the relief in the widowed Ralthorn's voice she still felt as if her stomach had been knotted into some sort of complicated pretzel design, compounded by the ever-soft exhalations of the dog on her lap.

--


	89. Foreign

--

Foreign

--

Some sort of million-footed monster had obviously traveled through here at some point or another. The ground was littered with small scraps of paper and spent cigarette butts. A crack in the sidewalk revealed something small, green, and fuzzy, and it had probably been the cause of it to begin with—despite its appearance. Three inches and an ice cream wrapper to the left was a piece of gum, flattened, browned, and half-ripped off. Further to the left were the bolts for a bench, which kept the thing firmly in place. It was indented, worn, and dull.

Brennan knew all this because she had spent the last twenty minutes or so just staring at the sidewalk, ten of which had been made unpleasant by the smell of a cigarette on the other side of the bench. The smoker had left, but the butt had fallen near her shoe. She had ground it out, mixing the black ash with the gum she had stepped in earlier. Now she was idly attempting to get both off by scraping the area against the corner of the stand which held up the bench, a movement which was becoming progressively more violent as time wore on. Finally, she slipped it off and began the scraping action anew, this time using her hands to direct the movement. Streaks of muddy pink marked her progress. There was hair on the pink spot on her shoe and she wondered if dogs traveled here.

So absorbed was she in her gum-removal that she didn't even notice the figure above her until it plopped onto the bench beside her, but she glanced the black pants and knew who it was so she didn't look up.

"Having fun, Bones?" her partner asked, his voice dry.

"Immeasurably." Her voice was just as dry, if not tart as well.

"Mm," he grunted, and she felt him lean back.

Exhaling, she slipped her shoe back on and looked up, pressing back into the bench next to him.

"Pretty," she noted, staring at the sky.

It was a bit more than pretty. Clouds were minted gold, streaks of bold yellows accentuating the darker colors underneath. Lighter areas were tinged silver, their original tone, but it was fading away fast, to be replaced by the stronger colors. The sky around it was rose red, softened by hints of pinks and peach, and blazing between clouds and air was the sun, hidden behind one of the former, and it was just dull enough to be viewed by an unshielded eye. At their backs the sky was still blue, and above it was almost black, but Brennan's eyes were now trained on the sun and its slow descent.

"Yeah," her partner agreed.

She swallowed, "What are you doing here?"

His clothing rustled in a shrug that she saw only out of the corner of her eye, "I talked to the witness, you went to the observation room. I get his confession, come out, you're not there. Checked the office. No Bones, no purse. Figured you didn't just go to get some FBI coffee."

"I didn't." She shook her head, "How'd you know I came here?"

She glanced him scratch the back of his head, and then he leaned forward like she was, "Just passing through. Noticed the lights were on..." his voice trailed off and when she looked at him he grinned.

"We're outside, Booth," she said and groaned, leaning back.

He followed suit, "True."

"So how did you find me?" she arched a brow.

Tapping his forehead, he replied, "Intuition."

She snorted and shook her head, "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

He shrugged, "Hey, Bones, you don't have to believe me but it was. I know you."

"Didn't have to check anywhere else first?"

He smiled again, "Okay, so I drove by the Diner on my way—just to check—but then I came here."

"Ah. So it wasn't intuition. It was deductive reasoning."

He held up a finger, "I prefer inductive."

"Apparently not."

They both smiled at each other and then laughed a little. After a moment, she turned back to watch the sunset, her smile bucking.

"You alright there, Bones?" he asked eventually. By then the sun had slipped from behind its clouds and almost seemed to be touching the buildings in front of them.

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugged again, "I don't know, but you usually don't leave the observation room like that. You know, except that one time when you left that sticky note on the table saying it was Alexandra Combs and to meet you at her office."

She snorted again, "I remember that."

"Had us panicked for a second there."

"Sorry," she said automatically.

"Eh..." he crossed his legs, "But this time there wasn't a sticky note. You just vanished."

"I needed some air."

"You could've stayed with me, Bones. Didn't have to leave the building."

She glanced at him again and he was gazing at her.

"I just needed a bit of a break from murder," she said. "A moment to breathe, be alone; be around things that didn't remind me of death."

"You?"

She turned to him, "Yes, Booth, even _I_ feel a little sick after awhile. This work, sometimes it just hurts, here—" she brushed her hair with her fingers, "and here." Her hand slid to her chest. "And I assume you understand because of your distinction between brain and heart."

He smiled briefly.

"Sometimes I need time to breathe, to see things untouched by death. Unencumbered by society, unrelated to order. Free of chaos and corruption."

"Bones," he poked her arm, "please no Noble Peace Prize speeches."

She rolled her eyes and shoved him.

"Hey," he objected, righting himself. "No need to get violent. I thought you wanted to be free of that stuff."

"No," she shook her head. "I don't need to be free of my own personal volatile nature. Actually, it's been awhile since I've been able to release."

He scooted a little farther away from her and she grinned.

"You know, that grin scares me sometimes," he said, "You look like one of those wolves or jackals or hyenas or something when they've caught the scent of a dying zebra."

"Hyenas are matriarchal," she replied casually.

"Ugh. Speeches to big words. You," he held up a finger. "are an enigma."

"Careful," she warned, "I may bite that off."

It dropped onto his lap with a slap and her lips twisted into another feral grin.

"See!" his hand shot up to point in her face. "There!"

She opened her mouth and brought her jaws back together with a sharp _click!_

His hand retracted hurriedly and she laughed.

"Evil," he muttered.

"Eh," her laughter tapered off and then she sucked the moisture in her mouth before pursing her lips. She parted them and words spilled out, "So he confessed?"

He nodded, "Three counts of murder in the second degree."

She shook her head and sighed, turning to stare back at the sun, "How could anyone do that? Murder his wife and two kids?"

He shrugged. "Man was a sociopath."

"He thought God was talking to him through his dreams and then he took his gun and..." her voice trailed off and she shook her head again, leaning forward. "And then he buried them all in eighteen pieces around a marsh." She continued shaking her head. "Two years, they sat there, Booth, and all that time he was just living his life as if he wasn't a monster, as if he'd never done such a thing." She looked over at him again, "There are times when I wonder if I'd really like to go to the lab that day to see more of these things, and I think about maybe going on leave for awhile just so I may get away. How can you do it? Go in there and listen to men like Oaks?"

He paused, and his hand slid over her own. "We all think about leaving sometimes, Bones. Hell, I wonder about that all the time. And there's no crime in vacationing for awhile. If you don't we just get burned out." He sighed, "I listen because it's my job to listen, just like you go in there and stare at bones for ten hours." He gestured with his free hand. "If we don't..." he paused and smiled for an instant, "If we don't, we go around shooting clowns."

She shook her head, "I've never shot a clown."

"Well, you will one day, Bones, or something else."

"That why you won't let me have a gun?"

"No," he moved on before she could comment, "Point is, Bones, yeah, it gets hard once in awhile, or maybe more than that, and that's when we have to step back and breathe a little. We'd all understand if you needed to do that." He squeezed her hand.

She nodded, "But you still didn't tell me how you can handle it."

He shrugged, "Guess you just learn to detach, all the way. That was important as a sniper, you know."

"I can detach, Booth."

"No. You connect too much and you pull away. There's a difference."

Her eyebrows crinkled, "How do you know?"

He tapped his forehead.

"Intuition?" she guessed and shook her head.

"See? You know me too, Bones."

"Apparently, all that's required to know is to remember then," she shook her head.

"Exactly." He lifted his hand and stretched it across the park bench. By now the sun was gone, and the sky was quickly giving way to the encroaching darkness from above. Electric lights flicked on, bathing sidewalks with artificial sight, but they were an ugly yellow compared to the old golds in the clouds. "So remember this, because I've told you before."

"And what is that, Booth?" she arched both brows.

" 'There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Bones, than are dreamt of in your science.' "

"I remember," she replied.

"That's a start then."

"It is, hm?"

"Yeah," he grinned at her and rose. "Now, come on. The sun has gone down, and we have not had our dinner. Still better than usual but I'm hungry."

She followed, "You're always hungry."

"Yeah, but this time I'm really hungry."

"You always say that too."

"You know, maybe I was wrong. Just don't remember things. It'll make it easier for the rest of us."

"Too late," she replied and she stepped up her pace to a jog. "Now, first one to the car gets to drive."

"Wha—"

She passed him quickly, "And I'm making you pay either way."

Not pausing for reply, she lengthened her stride and left him in the proverbial dust.

--


	90. Innocence

My final tribute to Epps, this time through "Death Row." This is a tag for the end of the epi.

--

Innocence

--

Her apartment was a welcome sight, and her very bones seemed to ache as she entered it, closing the door with her back as she fell onto it. She didn't know what she had been running on for the past two days, but whatever it was it was gone, and as she leaned there she wondered if she would be able to make it to her bed before collapsing. Because this was not the first time she had done this sort of thing she knew she'd be able to make it there, just as she knew she may be so tired that she would be unable to sleep once she got there. Thus when she pushed off the door she headed to her fridge and not her bed.

The night had been cool as she had briefly walked through it on her way to her apartment. Her partner had offered to drop her here, and she had accepted because after two glasses of wine she didn't trust herself to drive. The air in her apartment was stale though, as she had not been here even before the weekend and this mess had begun, and the whoosh of coolness from the refrigerator was welcome even as the smell of bad milk hit her nostrils. She had planned to make a large batch of custard to use the rest of it up before it would expire, but now it would seem that that was no longer a viable possibility, so she grabbed the neck of a wine bottle and the milk carton before closing the door with her hip. As she spilled the milk down the sink she wished her mind was as tired as her body was, and she wondered why it was that at Wong Foo's she had been on the verge of collapse and yet here she seemed awake enough to function for a while longer.

Sighing, she tossed the carton in her recycle bin and reached for a glass in her cupboard. She'd just have a night-cap. Hopefully it would do her in and, with any luck, she'd sleep all of tomorrow. That sounded good.

She poured the wine and walked to her couch, where she placed the glass on the coffee table and proceeded to stretch full-out. Her hands slid to undue her necklace automatically, but her fingers were not up to the task, and she gave up after a few seconds of fumbling. Her eyes felt as if they were weighted with sand, and she closed them. They ached, and she relaxed only when the pain subsided, and although her body now felt much heavier than it had minutes before, her mind was still whirling, and she hoped the alcohol would help it to rest.

But with eyes closed her connection to her apartment seemed to drift away, and if she dreamed they were nightmares that only her own reality could provide, images fresh from memories newly formed.

Reeds bent to her boots and mud compressed itself, the smell of earth and moisture heady upon her senses, and she heard the sounds of those around her without listening. Her hands were hot and itchy under their latex sheath, soothed only by the coolness of soil which she brushed away one small layer at a time. Her partner was silent at her back, as she had decided his aid would only cause damage, and the sole FBI tech she had trusted to help worked quietly on the other burial a few yards away. Her muscles and joints ached from overuse, and her eyes were sore from seeing, but she displaced all thoughts of discomfort in favor of whomever it was that she worked above. Slow work, made slower by their time limit, and after one too many sighs from behind she told Booth to go take a nap, which he left to do with no further suggestion.

As she worked, the skull she had exposed earlier was joined with its old partners in life, the yellowed bones revealed in the sharp contrast of fluorescent lighting. She didn't disturb them, nor did she allow a moment's time to study them as she brushed the dirt away, but she could not help but exhale in relief at the shallow burial, for a deeper one would have taken more time and energy—and she possessed neither at that moment.

Words occupied her thoughts, drifting in and out of her hearing; she wondered if she really heard them or if they were simply in her mind, but she listened because it seemed impossible not to.

_There—there are good people out there. There are people who believe me. People who know I did not kill that girl because they've seen all the evidence._

Her fingers brushed bone and the roots of marsh plants. To her right, the skull watched her from the dirt, sediment coating its surface and depressions. The eye sockets were one large pit of sand.

_I honestly think he's innocent._

_Have you changed your mind?_

_No._

She rocked back onto her heels. Around her the silence was unsettling, and below the skeleton was completely revealed in harsh lights. When she glanced over, she saw the same in the next grave, but she did not see the tech who had uncovered it. Rising, she brushed off her hands and looked around, wondering where everyone had gone. Silence was her only answer.

_We got played._

She turned as grass crunched from behind her, and in the light from the standing beams she saw a figure walking toward her. She could not see his face, but she recognized the gate and features of a man, though it was definitely not her partner.

"Thank you," he said as he approached. As if his words had triggered it, the light went out, and they were thrown into darkness. He melted into the foreground, the shadows of larger plants consuming him—their shapes provided by the half-moon above. "All I can say is thank you."

She shifted, placing one leg slightly in front of the other as her arms raised at her sides. Her hackles were up, and she recognized the voice but couldn't place it. A slight breeze shifted the foliage around her, and with it she smelled blood.

_We gave him everything he wanted._

"I owe it to you too."

Whirling to confront the voice, she saw nothing, and when she stilled she thought she heard movement but it seemed to come from everywhere. Disoriented, she backed away and felt bones crush under her feet.

"I knew you were just what I needed."

His voice was familiar, but not as she remembered it. It was amused, light, almost conversational, but with an edge that she could not identify. She swallowed and opened her mouth to speak, but found that she could not form the words. Her heart was picking up its pace, and her muscles were tensed—there was no longer a trace of exhaustion in her body. Despite this, she found that she was unable to move, and she stood rooted to the spot, listening and breathing in the wet air, for that was all she could do.

She was unprepared for the blow that came to her skull, and the pain that tore through her body. Her cry was heard by no one, for it never left her throat as she crumpled onto bones and damp soil.

_Either way, Epps wins._

Her eyes flew open and she shot up, breathing hard. The soft light of her apartment was an immediate reminder of where she was, and she stared at a carving on her wall for a long moment before allowing herself to believe it was there. Drawing a shaky breath, she checked her watch, noting that four hours had disappeared since she had first lain on the couch. The memories had been so real they had consumed reality, until they had morphed and changed themselves. Her heart was banging against her ribcage, but as she relaxed it slowed, and she leaned back against her pillow as she focused on leveling her breathing.

Eventually she trusted herself to stand, so she did, taking her untouched wine with her. She sipped the thick, sour liquid and the alcohol, though weak, seemed to clear her head. The nightmare had shaken her, but she felt better now, and she flicked off the lights on the way to her bedroom. Once she reached it she set her glass down and dropped onto the bed, deciding, once again, that she didn't have the energy to change.

As she reached around her neck to unlatch her necklace, she thought about Epps, the man whom she had never heard of three days ago but had been the cause of her fifty hours of sleeplessness and the object of her dream. The phrase "innocent until proven guilty" was sardonically ironic for a man who should have been dead as she had slept, kept alive because of two deaths. He had conned them all, and he had won at a game none of them had known they were playing.

The necklace slid onto her hand, and she unhooked her earrings before setting them all on her bedside table. She unlaced her shoes and kicked them away, because she certainly was loathe to deal with them now, and then she slipped off her blouse. Feeling slightly more comfortable, she rolled back onto her sheets and slipped under a blanket.

Her hands hooked around her pillow, and she clasped her wrist with one, grimacing as she remembered the feeling of his fingers brushing her own. Her only regret was that had she merely broken his wrist, and she almost wished he had tried something more so she would have had an excuse to inflict more pain on him.

But sleep called her with its soothing voice, and her thoughts were dispersing and breaking apart. She only managed one final conviction before consciousness slipped away, and she slept.

Epps would live to die another day; she would see to that.

--


	91. Illusion

Tag to "Verdict."

--

Illusion

--

Lights flick on, illuminating the townhouse and its furniture from above. Dust floats in the air and more swirls around him as he plops heavily onto his couch, kicking off his shoes in the process. He loosens and yanks off his tie before tossing it onto the table, and then he unbuttons his stiff collared shirt a little and slings an arm over his eyes. His right temple is throbbing and he sighs as he rubs it with tired fingers. He thinks about grabbing a Tylenol or an Advil or an ibuprofen but he doesn't get up, instead shifting his legs more comfortably over the couch arm.

It's been another one of those days where you wonder if it's really worth it to listen to the alarm clock and roll out of bed. Where you think everything that could possibly go wrong does, only to then watch it remedy itself an hour later. Only the remedy is worse than the problems to begin with.

He brings his teeth together in a chewing motion, and his mouth wants food even though his stomach lurches violently at the thought of anything being put inside of it. He needs something to distract himself, so he pulls the die from his suit pocket and begins to spin them between his fingers. They're gold and they reflect the light off their dull and scratched surfaces, and he stares at them.

The stand is in his mind, still fresh there as if he'd never left. Everyone staring and waiting for his words, and he can only answer the questions as they're posed without room for interpretation. And everything he says brings his partner's father one step closer to the needle, and whenever he looks over to see her her face is impassive and she doesn't blame him or hate him for it even though he feels like the scum of the earth. He'd have felt better if she had hated him for it but she never did, just kept staring at him with that solemn but unreadable expression. And when she'd invited him to breakfast this morning to talk he hadn't really known what she was thinking and he hates that he hadn't seen it and hadn't prevented it, even though it's probably the only reason that her father walked out of that courtroom today as a free man.

The accusations and the words and the images are still in his mind, burned there like a brand. It had taken him so long to see the ploy that he had been blindsighted on the stand, and if it weren't for Caroline's morals his own stupidity could have landed his partner in jail, and it would have been his fault. And the images—the images that had invaded his mind there have never left, and he can still see them when he closes his eyes.

He doesn't know why he sees them, why the thoughts have so much as entertained themselves behind his eyes, but they had and they make him feel sick and he wishes he could shut them out. It is his fault they have been planted in anyone's head to begin with.

But they do not go away, and he sees that cold look in her eyes again that he's seen before when she throws all logic out the window and becomes impulsive and reckless, and it's terrifying because he's seen that in other places and in worse people, and he doesn't like to know his partner like that. But the images that Barron had inspired are unforgivable, and it disturbs him greatly that even though he has rejected them they still seem indelible.

He can see the blood and the fire, and hear the fall of a body and the crinkling of plastic and the burning of flesh, and he can smell these things and taste them on the roof of his mouth. But before these images have never occurred to him, and he supposes that if they had he would have seen Max Keenan, but now it's his partner, the daughter of the man responsible, and he doesn't recognize her or her actions, but he remembers her eyes like that and it scares him. He had defended her publicly and failed, and ultimately it would seem that these thoughts had not played in his mind alone, because Max had gotten off and he had heard Sweets ask if Caroline was going to charge his partner and he doesn't know if it frightens him more that he has seen these images or if it is because the rest of the world has.

It had been an illusion set up by his partner, a way to lodge doubt into the jury so that she could keep her little family together. The fact that it had not failed was testament to the genius of the plan, but at the same time it opens up the possibility of her guilt—even if she is not necessarily responsible for the death of Robert Kirby—for it would seem that it had been hard for no one to believe that she may have been capable of doing such a thing, even over her father.

It disturbs him greatly, and all he can hear are her words, like a mantra, endlessly cycling about his head. He listens.

_If the truth can't be proven, is it still the truth?_

--


	92. Dark

The last set of legitimate Themes are the ones that I always felt were out of place and, frankly, weird. Very weird.

These are all one story, meant to be at least semi-coherent, though I guess that's variable. These were actually the very first Themes I ever wrote (thus it's weird I'm posting them now, I guess), and were following two important events in my writing life: wanting to write my first ever one-shots and wanting to experiment with the vignette form—mostly inspired by the style in Sandra Cisneros' _House on Mango Street_. I failed on the one-shot count until I wrote "Introduction," because the only idea I could think of for these Themes involved my basic idea of what I like to write: angst.

Thus, you get this train-wreck of a jumble of Themes.

For any who read my _Woman in the Woods, _this was mentally how I envisioned the finale to occur, though I guess in a slightly more, shall we say, coherent fashion. Why did I abandon the idea? I was frankly getting bored with the fic by the time I wrote the ending, thus the idea was shoved to the sidelines. One could argue that it should have stayed there. I'll let you guys decide for yourself.

--

Dark

--

The shadows are long and drawn because of a crescent moon somewhere high in the sky, but beyond view. It is difficult to see, but her eyes soon adjust.

Stacked in corners are boxes and other square things, though some are more rectangular and yet others appear to be spherical and are leaning against the square things, but she can't tell for sure what they are or what they look like or even exactly how far away they are. Away from the windows it is a void because no light has gone that far. When she glances back at the window, she notes that there is a large rectangular thing hanging precariously from a ledge and it looks like wood. A rotted plank fallen from its nailed spot over the window.

She doesn't quite know where she is. She has left, became separated, insisted on going in alone—whatever sounds better. She has walked into the building confidently, has heard the creak of the rusty hinges as the door shuts behind her, and has been plunged into blackness. Blackness so thick she is almost certain she can cut it with a sharp instrument, though rationally she knows that one cannot cut air. Not that it matters.

But now the blackness has lifted to a sort of dull grey, a grey that allows for sight barely more than the black, but at least she can see some inky objects, assuring her that she will not run into something and cause it to clatter loudly before falling to the floor with a _bang._ Her mind plays the sound as if expecting to hear it even without her movement, and she looks around suspicious, half-convinced she really did hear the noise. But there is nothing. Nothing but the dark and silence.

–

For those who don't particularly care to read this train-wreck, the last one is "Light" and following that I'll post my "last" Theme ("Rainbow"), followed by a bunch of bonus Themes (seriously, there are quite a few of them). Thus, you'll still have something to read if you care at a later point in time...


	93. Silence

--

Silence

--

The silence is so loud it roars, making her ears hurt. She wants to run into something, to knock something over, to break the deafening silence. She wants to wear it like a protective cloak, knowing that what cannot be heard cannot be found.

Nothing but silence. Roaring silence. Roaring silence and her breathing. It sucks in and out, though quietly and quickly, as if it is wind in a cave on a windy day. Or rather she is in a cave hearing the wind from outside. Sometimes it whistles softly as it rushes through, or makes a hollow roaring sound. Or perhaps that's just the silence. The silence that's so loud it hurts her ears.

When she finally steps forward, it sounds like a gunshot and she automatically recoils, stiffening and staring, wide-eyed, into the grey-and-black void. Her brain tells her it's a response to her over-stimulated sensory input and adrenaline rush. Her instincts tell her to stand still, to remain silent and in silence. Her mind tells her she will be found if she continues to stand as she is.

With steps that sound like gunshots, she moves forward, farther into the void, farther into the silence. The silence that sounds like roaring. The silence that is so loud it hurts her ears.

--


	94. Tower

Continued from "Silence" and "Dark."

--

Tower

--

The second room she enters looks much like the first, only the square and rectangular and spherical things are not stacked and tossed in corners but piled in the center. Or at least they appear to be piled shapes. It looks quite solid to her.

Her boots click loudly as she walks around the shape in the center. She sees nothing and no breaks. She begins to think that it is, perhaps, some sort of structure. Like a tower. A tower to look over something she cannot see.

She eyes it warily, as if in waiting. She doesn't know what she is waiting for. She knows there must be something here. There is too much blackness and too much silence for there to be nothing. But it is just a morose figure, watching her with unseeing eyes. She wants to shout out, to make it do something, reveal itself, but she does not because to make noise is to be discovered, to stand still is to be discovered. To fight is to get the upper hand. To find the enemy is to win.

So she leaves the silent tower, the uncaring tower, and it watches her go with unseeing eyes. She can feel its stare as she finally leaves the room. A silent watchtower in the void.

--


	95. Danger Ahead

Continued from "Tower"...

--

Danger Ahead

--

There is a long hallway which leads to another room, a room filled with nothing. Its emptiness alights a spark of fear in her heart. There is nowhere to hide, nowhere to run to, except, perhaps, back to the tower. But she has left it, and must forge ahead.

She hears sound for the first time in what seems like eons, but as soon as she hears it she wishes she hadn't. When she listens, she doesn't know where the sound is coming from. It sounds like it is everywhere, bouncing from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, box to box. The sound of a hinge squeaking slowly, tortuously, back to realignment. It seems to take centuries, three thousand lifetimes, but then it is suddenly gone, and the silence comes rushing back, and all she can hear is the sound of her heartbeat and the sound of her breathing. As soon as it is gone, she wants it back. Something to orient her with the world. But it is gone and she hears nothing and she moves on.

When she reaches the end of the room filled with nothing, she stands in the doorway, unmoving. Before her, lit by a single candle in the center of the room, are three doors. Three doors of blackness, of the void. Her hand is still on the knob of the door which she is still slightly behind, her fingers wrapped around it with a tight but sweaty grip. Slowly, she lets go and steps through. Behind her she hears the sound again, the sound of a hinge moving slowly back to realignment. She hates the sound, wishes it to leave her, but does not wish for the silence to come back.

But soon it is too much and she can stand it no longer. She turns to shut the door but sees no knob. She scrabbles for the door itself, but in her frenzy it slams shut, trapping her in the room with three doors and no noise.

--


	96. Traps

Continuing from "Danger Ahead"...

--

Traps

--

She turns back slowly, warily. The single candle draws her eyes and its naked flame makes her feel exposed. She shies away from it, still believing that the shadows provide a safety that light here cannot. She watches it, imagining it to jump to life as a phoenix would, but nothing, just as she has learned to expect, occurs. The light continues to flicker, the silence continues to roar, and the blackness continues to press.

She begins to warm to the light, feels emboldened by it. She steps forward and faces the doors once more. All look like they lead nowhere, but she decides to go through the left door, drawn to it by her proximity. Her heart pounds in her ears as she opens it and steps through, the hinges once again groaning in protest until suddenly silencing. When she turns back to touch it, she feels no knob. She walks forward, two fingers brushing the wall on her right as she goes. The hall seems to go on forever before she finally reaches a door, opens it, and steps through.

The light of a single candle greets her and she knows that she is back in the room she has left. She notes that in front of her are three doors and walks forward. Glancing back to see her exit vanish, she realizes that there are three doors there as well. She walks around the room.

Three doors greet her on every wall, and as she walks her disorientation worsens. She forgets where she has come from, where she has left, if she has ever left to begin with. She paces around endlessly, hating the trap into which she has fallen, her hand gripping the useless metal thing in her pocket. She begins to get angry, but that is as useless as the metal thing, and she continues to walk. Finally, she selects the nearest door, yanks it open, and steps through. The door shuts, trapping her once again, only this time she is in a large room with many square, rectangular, and spherical shapes, and she realizes she has gone nowhere. Nowhere but back to the start.

--


	97. No Way Out

Continuing from "Traps"...

--

No Way Out

--

The metal thing weighs her pocket down heavily, and fear and rage swirl around her mind as she acknowledges that she has been manipulated. Her eyes search the darkness again, but she notices nothing, sees nothing, and simply stands there waiting. Waiting like a dead duck, her partner would say.

_Are you afraid?_ a voice asks. It seems to come from nowhere and everywhere. She cannot locate its source in the gloom. She can only listen. _Are you afraid? _it asks again.

_I am not afraid, _she says.

_You are afraid, _it says.

She says, _I am not._

There is silence. More of the deafening silence. She waits for more words but hears nothing. Only the sound of her breathing. In. Out. Shallow and rapid. She tries to calm it and slows the rhythm. She takes a breath and lets it out and her breathing evens. She waits.

But the mysterious voice has gone mute, and it scares her more that she can no longer hear it than if she could. She begins pacing again, running her hands along the walls, and finds nothing. She does not know where to go, where to wait, so she stops.

Out of the void, a shadow separates, melting into her meager view as if particle by particle. The shadow moves so slowly she wonders if it knows she is watching, or if it believes itself to be invisible. The metal thing rises from her pocket.

There is a sudden flash, as if the blackness has winked at her, and she backs up, the metal thing leveling with it. There is another and she pivots but sees nothing. From some far corner of her eye she notices it again and turns, but her movement is too slow. An explosion rips through the air, pain sears into being, and two figures crumple to the ground.

--


	98. Pain

Continuing from "No Way Out"...

--

Pain

--

Her stomach rebels and she desperately swallows the burning mouthful, placing her palm on the cool ground to lift herself off her side. A scream bubbles to her lips, and she falls once more. She lies there, her right arm stretched over something warm but unmoving. She wonders if he's still alive but neither hears nor feels anything. Just oppressive darkness and roaring silence and searing pain. Slowly, she rises again, her left hand taking all of her weight. Once she is up she falls back. Her spine comes in contact with something hard and cool, and she leans against the wall in relief, her left hand cradling her right arm.

Her coat is wet and dripping, and her left hand slowly becomes wet and dripping, and the liquid runs slowly runs down her arm and onto her unmoving hand. The pain pulsates in her ears in time with her heartbeat, and soon her head begins to pound, and her stomach begins to pound, and once again she is swallowing bile.

Breathing out of her mouth, she knocks her head into the wall behind her as if hoping to gain some strength from its support. Her breathing is loud and labored and she doesn't recognize it. She believes it to belong to the figure lying on the floor, but she knows, somehow, that he will never move nor breathe again. Her arm gives a sudden agonizing pull and her vision goes a new shade of black before slowly returning. The gash screams in pain as she removes her hand, as if their parting has affected it deeply, and, without giving herself any time to think about it, she tears off the sleeve that has been slashed open. Groaning, she wraps it around the pain and the wetness, holding one end with her teeth as she pulls the make-shift bandage into a tight knot.

Her arm throbs angrily from behind its bondage, her heartbeat continuing to intensify the pain. She forces herself to her feet and stumbles, her hand catching onto something round connected to the wall. She grips it and breathes from her mouth, sucking in air hungrily. When she feels that she can stand prone no longer, she pushes herself from the wall and walks forward, looking for the figure on the floor.

--


	99. Blood

Continued from "Pain"...

--

Blood

--

Her steps are labored and unsteady, dark stains running down her limp hand to drip the floor. She can see the trail of spots she is leaving, her eyes aided by the light of an uncertain moon, but she walks on. The pain in her arm is slowly dulling, sharp pain only coming in rhythmic pulsations, but she wonders if this is really any better.

When she finally reaches the mass at her feet, she falls to her knees and reaches out with an unsteady hand for its neck, searching for a pulse. She feels nothing. She removes her hand but sits there, ignoring the deep coat of black satin that is slowly spreading outward from his form. Her blood drips into it, mingling and ultimately becoming enveloped within the pool. The intimacy of it makes her dizzy. She tastes something metallic in her mouth and lower down feels the burning of acid, and she tries to swallow, only to find she has no saliva. Blinking the world back into focus, she presses her good palm onto the wet ground and swivels.

On knees and one hand, she limps back, using her right arm for only the slightest of support. Once she reaches the wall again, she collapses against it, her left hand, once again, reaching to support her arm. It becomes wet quickly, and she swallows the saliva she has managed to call up. The silence is roaring in her ears again, the darkness swallowing her form and melding it to the dead man and the rest of the void. Somewhere she knows the tower is watching with sightless eyes, waiting to know if she will ever return. The room with twelve doors is empty, and she imagines that the candle's flame has flickered out, its dying breath a puff of smoke that would have been seen nor smelled by no one.

She breathes quietly and yet loudly, her breathes powerful enough to rock her whole body. The blood drips from her arm, her head pounds, and she rocks to her own body's rhythm, waiting. She is no longer waiting for a shadow to materialize, she is waiting for nothing. Her eyes close.

A boom shakes the silence, and the roaring seems to be pause, as if holding its breath. Her eyes open and she stares, once again, into the void, but sees nothing. Another boom and the entire building shudders with the effort of keeping someone out. A third and final boom, and the void retreats toward her, swallowing her, and light is slowly streaming in, and a figure is standing with a flashlight, illuminated by two street lamps and the weary moon.

_--_


	100. Light

Continued from "Blood"...

_--_

Light

--

He stands there calling. Calling her name. Her head lifts but she says nothing, can say nothing. He continues calling and her good hand knots into a fist and her legs stiffen and she slowly pushes herself to her feet. She stares at the light, at the figure, but can say nothing, gripping the round thing on the wall. He calls and her mind answers, _I am here._

He steps forward, a metal thing in his hand, and a glowing stick in the other, wrapped around each other as if in some sort of unholy embrace. She watches and steps forward. He seems to spot the figure on the ground and runs toward it, calling her name with increased distress, but when he reaches it and sees it and feels its neck he looks up expectantly and she watches from the shadows and attempts to move forward.

The blackness begins to fade away, oozing from her form like melting butter to retreat back to the shadows, and the light begins to reach her. Soon her shoes hit a lighter patch, and she can see them clearly, and he can see her clearly, and he runs forward, and she stumbles forward, and he catches her. He says her name in low tones and she replies in low ragged tones and he sees her arm and he says her name again, only much louder, and she insists she is fine and to take her outside.

Outside she sees the light of the street lamps and of the moon and she walks to them and leans against the pole of the light while he pulls out his phone to dial a number. She breathes in the cool air and stares at the moon and the light and feels the throbbing in her arm lessen, and the pounding in her head decreasing, and the thumping in her chest slowing, and she feels almost contented, but not really considering the condition she is in. He ends the call and puts away his phone and she watches him as he walks to her and helps her to sit. She leans against him, shivering.

His coat is suddenly off and around her shoulders, and she thanks him, but he replies something cheeky and a smile lights her lips and the shivers stop racking her body. He says more things in low tones and she mumbles things to make him feel better, and he sighs, and she exhales, and both of their breaths float in cold air.

Sounds pierce the quiet, which is nothing like the silence, and soon there are more lights, only these are as red as the spots that trail her footsteps and as blue as the car that is parked across the street beside a building with white letters. He says something and she nods and they rise as men in blue coats jump from red doors and run to her. She allows them to look and to ask things but does not reply and will not let them touch the wet place. He quietly leads her to the car as the men continue to buzz like insects, and she follows, and sits down, and he sits beside her, and the insects are forced to move past them, for she won't let them touch her, and she leans against him, and he leans against her, and her eyes drift shut. He mutters something but she hears it before a warm sort of blackness envelops her and she falls into sleep.

_Thank God you're okay, Bones, _he says and she thinks, _Thank God you were here._

--

Finally done. More Themes to come...


	101. Rainbow

Hm...this is vaguely disappointing. I can't post in colors.

Anyway, this is the last legitimate Theme before a slew of extra Themes (yes, it's not over yet); basically it uses color theory to describe each character, so an illustration of sorts. I picked the definitions for colors (or their connotations, I guess) based mostly off of what was a common theme for the color, and what I found most convenient.

This was more apparent when I had this in colors.

--

Rainbow

--

(Red)

She slides onto the stool, her smile light, her eyes twinkling softly, and when she speaks her voice is conversational and halted by the occasional laugh. Without turning, she knocks on the old bar and requests her drink, leaning in almost imperceptibly at the same time, her eyes narrowing, her smile becoming more predatory. Male hearts thud around her, and every Y chromosome in the room is eying her, lapping up her oiled movements. She charms the nearest, who is—of course—the most attractive, and when she reaches for her wallet he stops her and takes out his own, placing the bills slowly on the table as her drink, in its icy glass, is set by her elbow.

She smiles appreciatively and makes a light joke, and he laughs, and everyone else glares, and she comments that she's had too many drinks already, and everyone thinks she has had too little, but all say nothing, watching her movements. The only pretty woman in the bar, possibly the most beautiful who has ever dared enter, is paying attention to them—mere bar scum—and is ordering drinks.

But when she leaves the bar, no one remembers her except as the one who took Antonio home, no one save the bartender, who knows that this woman uses the place as her huntings grounds, and only when the men were not so steeped in beer would they learn that Angela had been coming for two years now, virtually every Saturday, and he is the only one to notice when she finally fails to come, for, as she had confided in him, she had finally found her man and needed hunting no longer.

-

(Orange)

Her soft-soled shoes pad quietly as she walks about her office/autopsy room, three files stacked under an arm, her purse hanging precariously from her shoulder, as she performs her late-night duties. One of the lab lights flicker and she feels irked by them, but not particularly warm, and she decides that tomorrow she will inform the maintenance men in the other building that she needs a new bulb. Then she walks out, locking the glass doors behind her.

Angela is nearby, hiding under one of those steel awnings that the lab has everywhere for no apparent reason other than aesthetics. Her back is pressed to one of the walls, her hands running down Hodgins' back in playful circles as she whispers things into his ear. She doesn't appear to notice that she's in a public forum, or maybe she does, as she eventually grabs the entomologist by the collar and pulls him into the janitor's closet, and he follows eagerly in her wake.

Cam shakes her head and begins the very short distance to the exit, repositioning her files and purse with a whole arm shrug. She pads by the bone room, where Zack is wheeling things around, a clipboard gripped between his teeth. He nods at her as she walks by and the clipboard falls to the ground, knocking a few things off the table. His cheeks redden and he gestures Cam away shyly as Brennan's form sweeps over and down, helping to fix the mess as the grad student kneels quietly to help, mumbling words Cam can't hear but are obviously apologetic, and Brennan's are neither harsh nor soothing as she helps him up and takes hold of some of the fallen objects herself. He follows her, shooting that shy smile to Cam as he goes, and she smiles too and shakes her head as she walks out of the lab.

-

(Yellow)

He follows her around, his camera held at his chest, his eyes sweeping over everything the anthropologist indicates either through words or her actions. Her voice prevails softly over the quiet room, and his flash occasionally breaks it up, like some sort of disconnected harmony, as she dictates the audio record and he captures it visually.

A few people stream in and out—Booth, who asks a few questions, hangs around a few seconds, and then gruffly takes off, tossing one question to Zack as he goes, and the grad student answers, Brennan having tuned them both out. Then Angela walks in and asks about the skull, and he tells her he'll have it clean soon and she thanks him and he nods and she leaves. Hodgins too, but Brennan shoos him out with a few words, and the entomologist and Zack exchange a look and a smile before he too departs, leaving Cam who pops in, sees she isn't needed, and exits without Brennan having ever noticed.

Then finally the anthropologist herself leaves, and Zack watches her go and they exchange silent goodbyes before he turns his attention to the rotten flesh and yellowed bone, and, with gloved hands and a bright desire for knowing, he leans over and starts his work, his mind distracted by neither numbers nor noise.

-

(Green)

Smells scorch the air with their touch, and soil and grasses turn over easily in his fingers as he goes, feeling the need for neither a tool nor a colleague. He remains planted to the ground despite the smell, though it's so putrid the dogs have all turned away, and he smiles a little, taking a sort of pleasure in his small victory over the perpetual battle of wills.

When everything is bagged, he turns away, swivels really, and then rises, one hand on his knee and the other in the earth. Mud coats his pants and he smiles—this time without competition, merely in pleasure—and plastic bags swing merrily from his fingers as he trots back to the table, a few insects buzzing his ears. He bats them away, but they persist and he just decides to ignore them, as they'd eventually ignore him, and he drops his things off and walks around to the porch.

Angela smiles at him, her sketchpad on her legs, a pencil in her hand, and she laughs at the hardships his clothing had endured. When he comes closer she protests and he protests to her protests and she pushes him away with her paper and he pushes that away with his gloves, and she laughs and he laughs and then they both are suddenly silenced as he grows to share her breath, and she to share his, and the smell of compost suddenly doesn't seem to bother them both nearly as much as it had a few minutes ago.

-

(Blue)

He stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his legs crossed, his expression easy and his smile slight. He knows she's there, and he knows she knows he's there, but maybe she isn't quite ready to deal with him yet and that's okay but he'll come in eventually because that's what he does. He doesn't knock, he just stands there, and he fiddles with his die. The suit is gone, and his shirt is a deep navy with a collar, and his pants are dark but just as comfortable. The taste of peanuts is on his tongue, and he idly dislodges a piece from between his teeth with a thumb. It tastes of salt. He sucks the flavor off and goes back to fiddling with the die.

The door opens slowly, wearily, as if in defeat, and his partner eyes him with a slightly irritated smile that doesn't quite hide the dark lines under her eyes, although he sees a lightness there that he suspects hadn't been there before, and she asks with a long-suffering sigh why he's here and he smiles and tells her it's because she knows she needs him. She rolls her eyes but smiles a little wider and lets him in. He tells her that tonight he is going to make her dinner and she says he won't and he insists that he will and presses lightly on her shoulders until she sits at the counter and asks what she'd like. She says she's not hungry, and he says she will be, and she sighs and he grins and then she just rolls her eyes but grins too and tells him about a pasta dish that's made with wine-cooked marscapone, mushrooms, onions, and other things to make a rich sauce and about the large noodles in her cabinet. She says it'll be too much work and he shakes his head and says it's the least he can do.

She stops disagreeing and watches him quietly, only pausing to ask if she can help but he tells her no and that he wants to reciprocate the mac and cheese. She thanks him. He tells her not to worry about it, even though he knows she will.

Almost two hours later, he is done cooking, and she is finished slicing the hot bread to go with it, because she had insisted on helping, and they both head to the table together, each carrying a plate of highly starchy though rich food, and she seems happy again and he is warmed both by the food and her smile as they settle in to eat.

-

(Purple)

She stands on the platform, one hand tucked into her buttoned lab coat and the other resting lightly on her hip, and she surveys the scene before her with a slight unconscious grin as she gets off her leg and starts forward toward her people as they scurry around. She asks a few questions, states a few orders, and then she paces around a little before bending over her latest charge, bowing next to Zack and standing virtually nose-to-rotted-nose with the corpse. It smells badly, but she ignores it and starts her work.

Hours pass, and so does the day, and her people come back with oral reports and facts, and they toss them all together until they reach a sort of consensus on their initial feelings, at which point she once again gives out orders and assignments, this time for tomorrow, and they split up to perform the rest of the work that will be done today before leaving the lab. Zack stays later, takes the bones with him to the boiler room, while Angela and Hodgins decide to wait around for the grad student to finish so that they will not have to swing back to give him a ride. They disappear, and Brennan doesn't really question where they go because it's obvious—would be obvious to a senseless man—what they are doing and she, instead, takes off to Limbo, finally unbuttoning her coat and letting her hair fall loose from the constraints of a tie.

The bones which herald her attention keep it for many hours, and she fills pages of lab reports as the story of the old woman becomes apparent and vivid to her, and she smiles at perceived memories of birth, feels a heaviness in her chest when she thinks of losses, and she wonders all the while whether this would be one of the lucky few she would be able to lift from here and return to a family. She decides that Angela should draw a face and that maybe it will help somehow, and then she packs up the skeleton, save its skull, and heads upstairs.

Her partner meets her on the stairs, as he always felt the need to intercept her, and there they argue, she clutching the skull and he rolling some round thing between his fingers. He insists on dinner and rest; she wants a little more time. Their bickering carries from beyond Limbo and into her office, and he settles on her couch and she behind her desk, and eventually the conversation turns, somehow, to more personal matters, and she fills out paperwork and he makes a paper airplane from her printer paper while they talk. Thoughts of dinner are long since out of her mind until he suddenly gets up and tells her he'll be back to escort her to an extremely late meal in ten minutes and that she will be covering half plus the tip, no matter what he orders, and she is given no chance to argue as he leaves.

Shaking her head, she strips of her blue coat, hanging it on its hanger and exchanging it for her black blazer before walking from the office and turning right for the stairs that lead up to the observation deck, or, really, the upstairs lounge. The old wood makes hollow thunking sounds under her heels and the steel makes clanging sounds as she reaches the top. Her hand slides along the railing as she walks and then she stops and leans out over the lab, her domain, watching Angela and Hodgins return from the downstairs and touching each other tenderly on the cheeks. Zack meets them and they nod and say words before turning and waving up at her, and she waves back and they smile and walk away, nodding again at Booth as he enters the lab area. The agent smiles at her and waggles his keys and she mouths that it hasn't been ten minutes and he says it's close enough.

Rolling her eyes, Brennan leaves the lounge and the lab, and the sound of their bickering follows them out of the building, onto the curb, and into the car, only to eventually be quieted by the arrival of the food and her assurance that she will pay her end of the bargain.

--

Alrighty...not sure how many extras I actually have, but the ones I have are being posted starting tomorrow...


End file.
